


Changing the Rules

by Kessa_Brae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 165,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kessa_Brae/pseuds/Kessa_Brae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are slowly drifting apart. Will a tragic event make them realise what they have to fight for? Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fight

Chapter One

The Fight

Doctor John Watson, former army medic and now GP and part-time detective, sits in his favourite armchair with a steaming mug of tea by his side and feels completely relaxed. It is the first time in weeks that he’s managed to have more than a couple of hours away from Sherlock and his incessant distractions. Well. Perhaps distractions is a bit of a mild term. John would have had no problem with a flatmate who pottered around quietly in the background, getting on with their business in an unobtrusive manner. And although there are many, many adjectives to describe Sherlock Holmes, unobtrusive is most definitely not one of them.  
Normal flatmates do not fire bullets into the wall because they are bored, they do not leave a decapitated head in the fridge as an experiment, they do not talk aloud at you all the time and they most definitely do not wake you up at three am on a weekday playing the violin at an ear-splitting volume. John is not even sure you can call what Sherlock does to that violin ‘playing’. Perhaps ‘abusing’ would be more accurate.  
John is well aware that he is not a particularly easy person to live with either, wasn’t that why he’d ended up with Sherlock in the first place? Two people who recognized that they are virtually impossible to live with? But at least John is quieter and less obnoxious about his bad habits than Sherlock.   
Now he is revelling in having the apartment to himself for two whole days while Sherlock is off in Morocco hunting down a serial killer who is murdering British tourists. He’d asked John to come but John had emphatically refused. Sherlock had badgered John for awhile, but he had remained steadfast. He wouldn’t come. Finally Sherlock had thrown him a disapproving look and packed his skull instead. It wasn’t his proper one as Mrs Hudson had removed it and now he had to cope with a plastic replacement from a joke shop.   
John could now watch television whenever he liked without interruption from Sherlock either making scathing remarks about the programmes or announcing loudly at to the world in general that he was bored. Boredom. Something to be avoided at all costs in Sherlock Holmes’s universe. That is fine. Even understandable, maybe. But keeping Sherlock from being bored had now become John’s job and to tell the truth he resented it slightly. It was like living with a toddler who demanded all your attention all the time, and threw a tantrum if they didn’t get what they wanted.  
John picks up his paperback and flicks to his place. Sherlock left a day ago and isn’t due back until at least the day after tomorrow.   
After about half an hour he is aware that Mrs Hudson has entered and is moving around in the kitchen, quietly tidying up the residual mess in there left by Sherlock. John tunes her out and returns to his book.   
The next interruption is Mrs Hudson appearing at his elbow with a plate of biscuits and a fresh mug of tea.  
‘I thought you could do with a snack, dear.’  
‘Thanks Mrs Hudson, you’re a star,’ John mutters absently, reaching out for a biscuit. Mrs Hudson has just turned away when the front door slams downstairs. John jolts upright in the armchair, the book dropping from his hands. No. No, it can’t be...  
But there is no mistaking those light bounding footsteps on the stairs. Sure enough the door to the apartment bursts open a couple of seconds later and Sherlock Holmes strides through like a tall, skinny whirlwind.   
He tosses his battered suitcase into the corner of the room, where it lands with a resounding thud and throws himself onto the sofa, covering his face with his arms. Mrs Hudson glances at John and then smiles over at Sherlock.  
‘Hello Sherlock, dear. How was Morocco? John and I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon, did we John?’  
Incapable of speech, still trying to grasp the fact that his Sherlock free days had just been cruelly wrenched away from him, John settles for a slow shake of the head, which is obviously pointless as Sherlock can’t see him.  
‘Dull,’ Sherlock intones from behind his hands and John sighs. Of course.   
Mrs Hudson looks quite bewildered. ‘But wasn’t it a serial killer? I thought you liked those the best.’  
With a dramatic sigh Sherlock removes his arms from over his face and heaves himself upright on the sofa.  
‘It was obvious to me who the killer was about two hours after touching down. I informed the authorities and left on the next flight. Honestly, I don’t credit Lestrade and his team with that much intelligence, but even I mistakenly thought they would have had enough for a case like that.’  
‘Oh well, it’s lovely to have you back dear. The house has seemed too quiet without you, hasn’t it John?’  
John feels a hysterical urge to laugh but manages to hold it in. He arranges his face into a mask of blank indifference and nods. But Sherlock is looking at him now, looking at him with those almond-blue eyes of his and John has the uncomfortable feeling (not for the first time) that Sherlock can see right through him.  
He gets to his feet, picks up his mug of tea and his book and goes into his room. He manages about an hour of peace before Sherlock walks in and stands by his bed, looking at him. John sighs and puts the book down on the nightstand.  
‘Yes? What is it Sherlock?’  
Sherlock studies him intently, a few dark curls falling across his marble-white forehead but he doesn’t say anything. Merely continues staring. John starts to get irritated.  
‘What, Sherlock?’  
‘You weren’t happy to see me,’ Sherlock states frankly, still looking down at his flatmate. ‘You wished I’d stayed away.’  
‘And how did you work that one out?’ John mutters. ‘By the state of my big toes?’ He knows he sounds petty and sulky but he can’t help himself. All he’d wanted was a couple of days peace. Was that so much to ask? Yes, it is true that he misses the army life and he appreciates the opportunities he gets for living again when he is with Sherlock and helping solve cases. But unlike the slender detective he doesn’t want to be doing it twenty-four-seven. Sometimes he just wants... no, needs to relax.  
‘Don’t be ridiculous John,’ Sherlock snaps, his blue eyes narrowing. ‘It was your book.’  
‘My book,’ John repeats, shaking his head in slight disbelief.  
‘Yes. It was on the floor, face down with the pages bent. Books don’t look that way unless they have been dropped. You take care of your possessions, you are keen on reading, you would never leave a book like that, which means you had only just dropped it. Now why would you have dropped your book at that particular moment? It must have been just after I arrived otherwise you’d have picked it up again by the time I entered the apartment. Obviously then, you dropped the book because you were surprised, and the reason for your surprise was my early return from Morocco. Yet when I entered there was no smile on your face, no indication that you were in any way pleased to see me. You didn’t audibly reply to Mrs Hudson which indicates to me that you were disappointed... perhaps even angry. And what about? My return. It’s the only possible explanation.’  
Despite himself, John still feels the thrill of fascination whenever Sherlock talks like that. It is wondrous to see how his mind works.   
‘Okay,’ he snaps. ‘You’re right, as always. I was disappointed. And angry. Because I was looking forward to having a couple of days peace without you and then you came back early.’ There’s another long pause. Glancing up at Sherlock, John can see his forehead crease with concentration as his fabulous mind tries to make the connections.  
‘Is it because of the violin?’ he finally asks.  
John almost shouts with frustration. ‘No, Sherlock, it is not just the violin. I mean... that’s part of it. But it’s everything! God knows I don’t want to settle down into my approaching middle age quietly and I do enjoy coming on cases with you... but I’ve got to have a little bit of peace sometimes!’  
Another intense silence and then Sherlock speaks. ‘When I first met you I told you about my bad habits. I told you I talk aloud constantly and like to play the violin. I would have thought if you had a complaint you would have mentioned it before. Do you want me to stop playing? Is that it?’  
Sherlock Holmes, John thinks wearily. So brilliant, so perceptive in almost everything apart from social interaction. Sherlock’s mind had fixated on the violin as being the cause of the problem, as being the cause of John’s (to Sherlock’s mind at least) frankly unreasonable sudden behaviour. And it will be useless to try and explain.  
‘No, Sherlock. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.’  
Sherlock takes a step backward from the bed and frowns again. There’s something he’s missing, there’s a certain timbre in John’s voice... but the meaning eludes him.  
‘Are you sure?’ he asks quietly, fairly certain that there is still something wrong. Something.   
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ John responds tiredly. ‘I want to read, I’ll see you later.’

Three Days Later

‘Sherlock.’ John shuffles into the living room, his hands clamped over his ears. Sherlock does not hear him. He is sitting with his back to John, the violin in his hands, plucking violently at the strings. John knows that he has been ensconced in a particuarly troublesome mystery for the past few days. He also knows that Sherlock is having trouble solving it. Hence the late night/early morning violin concertos. Sherlock always plays the violin aggressively when he is angry or frustrated with a case.  
But this is the last straw. It is the third night in a row that John has gone without much sleep. The first two nights he’d burrowed down into his pillow and tried to drown the noise out, without much success. His work is suffering. He is tired all the time, and when he gets tired he gets irritable. Unlike Sherlock he is not capable of functioning fully at all hours of the day and night. He can’t survive without sleep for that long.  
‘SHERLOCK!’ he bellows, his hands still over his ears.   
Sherlock turns around in surprise, the violin still in his hands, his dark curls messy and dishevelled.  
‘John. I’m sorry... did I wake you?’ Barely a pause before he continues. ‘Ah yes, of course I did. The sleep in your eyes, ruffled hair, the bleary squint. Classic signs.’  
‘That’s it. That’s absolutely it. I’m going to have to move out Sherlock. I can’t cope with... with this anymore. With you.’  
‘What do you mean? You can’t move out. Don’t be ridiculous John.’  
Something inside John flares up and he moves a step closer to his flatmate. ‘Ridiculous? I’m not being ridiculous. And I’m not being stupid either, before you say it. Did you ever think, Sherlock, somewhere in that genius mind of yours, that other people don’t appreciate being put down all the time? Being called idiots?’  
Sherlock carefully puts down his violin and runs a hand through his hair, staring at John with a perplexed and somewhat hurt expression on his face. ‘But they are idiots, John... to me at least. I don’t mean any harm...’  
‘But it is harmful, Sherlock! Just because everyone else around you is less intelligent than you does not give you the right to insult them!’  
‘You’re tired John, and it is proven that when someone is tired they become more short-tempered. I shall chalk your remarks up to your temporary irritability.’  
‘Of course I’m tired Sherlock! It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning, I have work tomorrow, a job to go to, which I need if I am to pay our bills so that we can carry on living here! You do sod all to help, you sit around the apartment all day doing God knows what unless you’re out on a case where you refuse all paychecks anyway! And I’ve been woken up the past few nights by you playing that fucking violin!’  
Sherlock had taken a step backwards during John’s tirade and now he sits down on the edge of the armchair and rubs his fingers against his temples, showing, for the first time, a hint of genuine agitation.  
‘You said, John, you said it was fine about me playing my violin. Just a few days ago. I remember distinctly because it was the day I came back from Morocco.’  
‘Jesus Christ Sherlock! I was being polite! Normal people don’t play violins in the early hours of the morning! Normal people have some consideration for others! You know perhaps Donovan is right about you.’  
Sherlock’s eyes narrows to slits and he steeples his fingers under his chin, a very characteristic gesture which somehow serves to anger John all the more. ‘Right about what, exactly, John?’  
Perhaps if John had been in a calmer state of mind, less tired, and more observant, he would have been more careful about replying. As it is, the words spew from his lips without anything resembling intereference from his brain.  
‘That you’re a freak, Sherlock!’  
Sherlock gets to his feet very slowly, moving with odd jerky movements which utterly lack his usual feline grace. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something and then shuts it again. John, who has never seen his flatmate lost for words, ever, watches in astonishment and tries to ignore the creeping tendrils of guilt which are twining their way around his stomach.  
He knows, more than anybody, that as much as Sherlock tries to hide it, he is hurt by the barbed comments from Anderson and Donovan. John is the one who sees the expression in Sherlock’s eyes when they travel away from the crime scene after the detective has been in the firing line of one of Anderson or Donovan’s snide put-downs.   
John has learnt something very important about Sherlock Holmes in the months he has been living with him. Sherlock Holmes is not a sociopath. He does have feelings and emotions. True, they are buried very deep down and Sherlock does not allow himself to access them much, if at all. But they are there. And every insult hurled by Donovan and Anderson had left its mark. To call Sherlock ‘freak’ was unbelievably cruel.  
John becomes aware that he has sunk his head into his hands. He raises his gaze towards where Sherlock had been just a moment before, but his flatmate is no longer there.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock lies on his bed, arms above his head, hands clasped together. He doesn’t know why he is feeling surprised and hurt. He doesn’t know why he’d thought John would be any different. Everybody came to the same conclusion about him sooner or later. Lestrade hadn’t actually come out and said it yet, but Sherlock knows he is thinking it sometimes. It is the expression of slight guilt that crosses the Detective Inspector’s face every time someone at the Yard uses the slur. Sherlock knows he is feeling guilty that he had thought exactly the same thing.  
Sherlock Holmes knows himself. Inside and out. There is a file in his carefully compartmentalized brain which simply reads ‘me’. He isn’t sociopathic. He knows that, how can he not? He experiences emotions and he can feel. But because he has emotions and feelings does not make them any easier for him to understand. As a matter of fact they confuse him. Sherlock does not like being confused. And so he stores them away and puts up a pretence that he simply does not have them at all. It’s simpler that way. And John Watson, with the exception possibly of Mycroft, is the only person who has seen through that pretence.  
Now that he is alone, he is able to fully access his mind and try and work out exactly what John was so angry about. The violin. No, Sherlock. Think. It is not just the violin. John told you that himself. So then, what?   
And suddenly he knows. How could he have not seen it sooner? John had told him bluntly, and he just hadn’t listened. Everything. It’s everything, Sherlock. Everything about him annoys John. The way he occasionally fires his gun into the wall when he is bored and there is simply nothing else to do. His experiments. He knows they irritate the doctor. The huffs and sighs and exclamations of ‘Oh Jesus, Sherlock! A foot? Really? In the oven?’ He had tried to explain that one. He honestly had. But John hadn’t seemed to understand the importance of knowing how much residual heat from a cooking device would affect a piece of dead flesh.   
Just him, in other words. Sherlock takes a slightly shaky breath and reaches out for a thick, black leather-bound notebook lying on the floor next to his bed. He scrambles around briefly for the pen which is always lying beside it, finds it, and props himself up, the book on his knees.   
The pages are filled with various musings, usually involving cases Sherlock was working on at the time. Much like a writer or any type of artist will say, ideas usually strike in the middle of the night, just when you are dozing off to sleep. If you do not have a way of recording them right that minute then they are liable to elude you. Sherlock will not accept ideas eluding him.  
But the notebook is more than just a sounding board for various theories and explanations. It is also his escape. Feelings slow him down, emotions confuse him. And so to deal with them, he records them. It is a way of purging. He refuses to delete them... he has an idea they may be important to who he is. Yet being distracted by them is not an option. The notebook, or part-time journal, offers him a perfect alternative. By writing his feelings down he is acknowledging them, he makes them permanent. Once that has been achieved his mind feels clearer, more able to see the tenuous links in situations that other people usually miss completely.  
And so, interspersed with his various musings on a certain modus operandi or the murder weapon of choice, are short passages concerning more... personal issues. There are fairly regular entries detailing exactly how hurt he always feels when either Donovan or Anderson, or both, insult him at a crime scene. Somehow they know exactly what will cut right to the core of Sherlock Holmes. But do they? Somehow he thinks that they are cruel just for the sake of it. He has a suspicion that they don’t really even regard him as properly human. Or if that is going a little too far, both of them at least are convinced that he is a sociopath, and therefore incapable of true feeling. Anderson, at one point, even accused him of being a psychopath. Now that was harsh, Sherlock muses. Although if they thought he was bad, he would love to introduce them to James Moriarty sometime. This sudden thought makes him laugh aloud and the sound startles him back into silence.  
However the personal entries which have started to become more dominant are not to do with Anderson, Donovan or any member of the police force. They are to do with John. Stupid things which he recognizes as being somehow important to record, and yet he does not understand why they are important. Nevertheless he dutifully writes them down as part of his self-administered therapy.

John and I cooked dinner together today. Or rather, he cooked, and I watched and handed him ingredients. He seems to take a strange pleasure in the act of creating a meal. Personally I don’t quite understand the attraction... food is only there as a means to sustaining your energy and therefore surely it would be more productive to consume food already prepared. Still, it seems to make him happy. Perhaps I should buy him one of those cookery books for his birthday. Lestrade’s wife seems absurdly keen on someone called Jamie Oliver.

Chased a man through Hyde Park at midnight tonight with John. Although I am sure he isn’t the man we are after for the murder of Linda Jenks, he has had dealings with decidedly suspicious characters. Added to that, it is fun. John looks so alive when he is taking action. We lost the man after about ten minutes and stopped to catch our breath. John was flushed and breathing hard, and for some reason he was endlessly fascinating to me. I felt something... a strange feeling in my stomach. I have decided to write it down so I can examine the data at a later date. It makes me think about his time in Afghanistan. He is a soldier after all, and being active suits him.

John bought a new jumper today. He usually favours bulky, knitted sweaters. I have a feeling this is something to do with him putting up an unconscious barrier to the world. However, this new jumper is something different. Thinner material. More fitted. It suits him... and I found it difficult to look away.

Sherlock reads over these last few entries and sighs, tangling his long, slender fingers in his curly hair. Why on earth does John Watson, of all people, have such a disarming effect on him? It is lucky he has this journal to write the feelings down. He can’t imagine how people go about their everyday lives burdened with this sort of emotional luggage. It must be so tedious. And difficult.   
Hesitantly he twirls the pen and then puts it to the page, attempting to put into logical terms what has happened in the past few nights with John.

John and I have had another fight. A bit more serious than the others I think. John is getting tired of me. I knew it had to happen at some point, and yet, foolishly, I did not prepare myself for the eventuality. Now I curse my stupidity. This hurts. The knowledge that John, like everyone else, has finally seen me. He has seen me, and he wants to leave. It is understandable, I know. I believe it is something to do with my, less than considerate social habits. This is why I tried to warn him when I met him and he was looking for an apartment and a flatmate. I tried to fool myself that John did not mind, and accepted it as part of who I am. I shall not try and fool myself again. I am too intelligent for that, I will always figure myself out. John will leave. And I will have to try and learn to be by myself again. Without him. I will try and ignore how much that hurts me. And I also know that that will be impossible. Even writing these thoughts down has not stopped the pain I still feel when I think back on what he called me this evening.

Sherlock pauses for a moment. Something is wrong. What is happening to him? He can’t be... Gingerly he puts a finger up to his cheek and swipes his skin. He stares at his fingertip. Moisture. He hasn’t cried since he was five-years-old and a fifteen year-old Mycroft informed him that when people get old they lose their minds.  
John Watson. He is crying over John Watson. Stupid. He slams a fist against the woodwork of his bed-frame, and surprisingly the slight pain seems to help him focus.   
It is of no matter. He will apologize to John and everything will continue like before. He will continue to try and ignore how important John is quickly becoming to him, and he will try and pretend that John’s indifference to him doesn’t hurt. Sherlock is a skilled actor.


	2. The Body

Chapter Two

The Body

‘Morning Sherlock,’ John mutters as he enters the kitchen, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Sherlock, naturally, is in his habitual position on the couch, absently rubbing the two nicotine patches on his inner forearm. He quite obviously has not slept all night. John sighs deeply. Despite the man being incredibly annoying most of the time, for some reason John still cares about his well being. ‘You really ought to try and sleep you know.’  
‘Sleeping’s boring. I need to think.’  
John rolls his eyes and takes a mug from the cupboard, plops in a teabag and switches on the kettle before he realizes.  
‘I’m going to have to go to the shops. Again.’  
‘No need.’  
John glances over at Sherlock, still immobile on the sofa. ‘What?’  
‘I said, no need. The milk is in the fridge. I presume that’s what you want from the shops. Water is always available and the last I saw we had about ten boxes of teabags, so I imagine milk is what you thought we were out of.’  
John gapes slightly. ‘But we were out of milk. I used the last of it yesterday. I remember. And Mrs Hudson doesn’t go to the shops on Thursdays...’ John tails off as he realizes something. If he didn’t get the milk and Mrs Hudson didn’t get the milk, then that must mean...  
A slow handclap from the sofa. ‘Well done, John.’ Sherlock finally opens his eyes, rolls his sleeve back down his arm and pulls himself upright. Casually he steps onto the coffee table and then off it as he traces the quickest path to where John is standing in the kitchen. ‘I know I need to apologize to you, John. I thought about it last night and I understand that my behaviour is causing you problems. I will try and tone it down in future. I bought the milk as a peace offering. And a few other groceries, I know how the chip and pin machines annoy you.’ There is a ghost of a smirk on Sherlock’s face.  
John searches Sherlock’s face for a moment or two. A face he has become more familiar with than any other. He knows the high, arrogant cheekbones almost off by heart. The high forehead (denoting a large brain) and the full lips, currently twisted into what almost looks like worry despite the hovering smirk. The endlessly messy dark curls and those piercing light blue, almost gray almond eyes, that always have the annoying habit of fixing John to the spot. They are currently anxious, meeting John’s inquisitive stare almost hesitantly.  
John is suddenly filled with a rush of affection for his flatmate. It gives him an absurd amount of pleasure to think that Sherlock Holmes has made a concerted effort to apologize to him. John senses that Sherlock still isn’t entirely sure what he is apologizing for, but the fact that he has seen the need to do so makes all the difference.  
‘It’s fine, Sherlock.’  
Sherlock frowns. ‘You said that before and it obviously wasn’t. I know I can be annoying, John. I will try... I have to. I can’t afford a place in London on my own, neither can you, I might add... and I will not ask Mycroft for financial help.’ As John stares at him, Sherlock’s lips twitch upwards into a rare smile. ‘Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other.’  
John pauses and then speaks. ‘I owe you an apology too Sherlock. I shouldn’t have said... what I said last night. I’m sorry. It wasn’t true and it wasn’t fair.’  
John tries to not notice the sudden hurt that flickers in Sherlock’s eyes, the hurt that is swiftly covered over like it has never existed.  
‘You’re hardly the only one to say that, John. Believe me, I’m used to it.’  
But you’re not, John thinks. Your very expression says otherwise.   
‘Well, anyway,’ he finally mutters. ‘Thank you for getting the milk. It was very... considerate of you.’ Sherlock beams at him and John feels his breath catch. It’s not as if Sherlock never smiles. He does, only very rarely, and even then it is usually only a small quirk of the lips as if to briefly indicate to people that he does find whatever the situation is vaguely amusing, and then it is business as normal. Never has John seen Sherlock smile this widely and unreservedly and it’s quite startling. It is fairly evident to John that Sherlock has never been called ‘considerate’ in his life.  
John turns away and busies himself with making his tea, trying to calm his disordered thoughts, and when he turns back to Sherlock, the detective is no longer beaming, although a small smile seems to continually tug at his lips.  
‘Have you heard from Lestrade recently?’ John asks, for lack of anything else to say. Sherlock flings himself back down on the couch.  
‘No. I think I might have annoyed him when I got back from Morroco.’  
John finishes making his tea and carries it carefully into the living room, placing it on the table beside his chair before falling back with a sigh. ‘What did you say this time?’  
Sherlock glances over at him sharply and then returns his steady gaze to the ceiling. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the truth. That they are all a bunch of incompetent idiots who wouldn’t be able to spot clues unless they leapt out at them wearing penguin outfits and doing a lap dance.’  
John blows on the surface of his tea and fixes Sherlock with a glare. ‘That, Sherlock. That right there. You can’t go around saying things like that to people – especially not Lestrade and his team! They work hard, damned hard, you know that!’  
‘I do,’ Sherlock agrees. ‘But what is the point of hard work without results? It’s pointless.’ John sighs, shakes his head a little and there is silence for awhile as John drinks his tea and Sherlock continues staring at the ceiling.  
Finally John checks his watch and heaves himself up from the armchair. ‘Right, I’m off to work.’ Sherlock doesn’t respond and John fidgets a little. ‘Perhaps you should go out today – get some air or something. It can’t be good for you spending day after day in the apartment while there’s no case to work on.’  
‘I don’t want to go out – I can’t see how I’ll be any less bored outside than I am in here. Besides I need to think and I can’t when my head is filled with distractions.’  
John opens his mouth to reply when his phone rings. Still glaring a little at Sherlock he pulls it out of his pocket and checks the ID.  
‘Sarah,’ he informs Sherlock, for no particular reason. Sherlock does not respond. ‘Hi, love... yes I’m on my way in now, just leaving the apartment... yes, I’ll see you soon. Okay, bye.’ He clicks the phone off and hears Sherlock huff and then snort with derision.  
John stares at him. ‘Okay, what is it now?’  
Sherlock rolls onto his side and opens his eyes, fixing John with that blue stare. ‘It’s interesting how she feels the need to talk to you on the phone even when she knows she’ll be seeing you in a matter of minutes. Rather a waste of time and energy. Not very smart.’  
‘She just likes to hear my voice.’ John finds himself defending Sarah, even if a small part of him actually agrees with Sherlock. Over the past few weeks, Sarah has taken to ringing him up just to talk about nothing – even when, as is the case now – she knows that she will be seeing him in person very shortly. John doesn’t quite understand it either, but he knows better than to openly agree with Sherlock. The detective would be even more impossible to live with than he is at the moment.   
John picks up his briefcase and heads for the door. Just as he is about to leave he hears Sherlock call from the living room.  
‘I know you agree with me John, you just don’t want to say it. Your thoughts are unbelievably easy to read... don’t ever take up a job as a spy.’ There is a pause. ‘Or a politician.’ John’s hands curl into fists briefly before he takes a deep breath and strides out of the door, slamming it behind him.  
Even the prospect of seeing Sarah doesn’t calm him down as he stalks off down the street towards the tube station. 

Eight Hours Later

‘I bought you your coffee sweetie.’ John winces slightly. He wishes that Sarah wouldn’t call him that when the other GPs can hear her. It strikes him as slightly unprofessional. Nevertheless he thanks her warmly as he takes the cardboard cup from her hands.   
‘Thank you, Sarah,’ he replies. ‘Has my three o’clock arrived yet?’  
‘Not yet, but when she does I’ll send her in.’  
Rather than leaving then, as she would normally, Sarah sits opposite the desk and looks at him. John shifts in his seat, glancing down to the carpet before looking at her again.   
‘No more patients for you at the moment then?’ he asks. She smiles slightly.  
‘No, I’ve got a welcome gap in my schedule.’ She studies him for awhile longer. ‘What’s wrong, John? You arrived with a face like thunder this morning.’  
John puts his coffee down on the desk and wonders how to respond. ‘It’s nothing really it’s just... Sherlock.’ He doesn’t need to say anything else. Sarah nods understandingly.  
‘What’s he done now?’  
For some reason this irritates John slightly. Much like everyone else in the world, Sarah finds it difficult to understand or connect to Sherlock. John knows that she views him with suspicion.  
‘Just the usual. It doesn’t matter. It’s just part and parcel of the deal, I suppose.’  
Sarah taps her fingers against the wood of the desk, obviously thinking. Finally she takes a breath and speaks quite quickly. ‘You don’t have to live with him if it’s difficult for you, you know.’ John glances up sharply. She carries on. ‘I mean... I know you like him and everything, but recently you seem more and more irritated by him. I... I was actually wondering if maybe you wanted to, come stay with me for a bit.’ John stares. ‘You’d have to pay half the rent of course, but, it’s less than you’re paying at the moment.’  
John’s mind is whirring. Is Sarah actually asking him to... move out of Baker Street and move in with her? Isn’t this a bit sudden? After all, they’ve only been properly dating for a few months.  
But then just yesterday you were announcing to Sherlock that you were going to move out. What’s the problem? Isn’t this a perfect solution?  
Now he comes to think about it, John realizes that he never had any intention of moving out of Baker Street. It was just something that came out in the heat of the moment. And the idea of what Sherlock might do without John there to keep an eye on him is too terrible to contemplate. Slowly John becomes aware that his mouth has dropped open and he must look something like a landed fish out of water. Probably not the best look to be wearing when your girlfriend has just asked you to move in with her. Indeed, a slight expression of hurt is wavering in Sarah’s eyes as she looks at him.  
Just as he is about to reply, though with what he has no idea, his phone beeps, indicating a text. Relieved to have a distraction he mutters, ‘Hang on a minute,’ and digs his phone out of his briefcase.

Come to the Yard. Very important. SH

John rolls his eyes. It seems Lestrade has finally met with a case which is causing problems for his team and has decided once again to call in the world’s only consulting detective. Hopefully this new development will stop Sherlock being bored for at least awhile. Hurriedly he taps a reply.

Sherlock, I’m at work.

He raises his eyebrows apologetically at Sarah and mouths ‘Sherlock’ to her. She sighs and gets to her feet, giving him one last unfathomable look before leaving the room. Before he has a chance to wonder what that look could mean, his phone vibrates again.

Oh yes. Well, come afterwards. Police are idiots but this might be fun. SH

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John has just arrived at Scotland Yard when he sees Sherlock barrelling towards him from the lobby, swiftly followed by Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade who seems slightly out of breath.  
‘John! Thank God you’re here, I’ve been so bored! I couldn’t go to the crime scene without you because I need an assistant and heaven knows I can’t work with Anderson.’  
Lestrade catches up with him and breathes heavily a couple of times before speaking. ‘You do know that Anderson is there at the moment, Sherlock?’ he asks. ‘We’ve been able to hold off on moving the body until you arrive, but he has to be there to examine the scene.’  
Sherlock runs a hand impatiently through his curls and hails a taxi. ‘Yes, yes, I know he’ll be there, but the point is now John will be there as well. That makes all the difference.’ He throws one of his patented small smiles at John and the doctor feels an odd warmth creep up from his toes.   
A taxi pulls up and Sherlock wrenches open the door and throws himself into the back seat. John always feels slightly amazed at the way Sherlock’s body seems to obey his every command from his brain. He’s a tall man and yet he seems to be able to fold himself into the smallest of spaces with very little difficulty, and always manage to look graceful doing it.  
‘Come on, John!’ Sherlock calls impatiently, already on his phone and tapping away. John turns hurriedly to Lestrade who is smiling slightly.  
‘Where exactly are we going?’  
‘Chapel Street, just off Belgrave Square. There’s a small alley... well, you’ll see when we arrive. I’ll be right behind you.’  
John nods and clambers into the car next to Sherlock, feeling extremely clumsy. The cabbie turns around with a bored expression. ‘Where to?’ he intones dully.  
‘Chapel Street, just off Belgrave Square please.’  
Sherlock glances up. ‘Oh yes, I forgot to ask where it was. Good thinking John.’ John smiles and settles back in his seat as the cab pulls into the traffic.  
Twenty minutes later they arrive and Sherlock hurls himself out of the car and heads off down the street at a swift walk, leaving John to pay the taxi. Just as the cab drives off again Lestrade arrives with Donovan in tow.   
Donovan nods curtly to John in acknowledgement. ‘Afternoon Doctor Watson. Where’s the freak?’  
‘Don’t call him that,’ John mutters angrily. Donovan blinks and then smiles coldly. John feels an urge to hit her. ‘Sherlock is down there.’ He indicates the direction the detective took and then starts walking, ignoring the inspector and Donovan.  
After about thirty seconds he comes upon a small alleyway on the left, the entrance to which is barred with blue and white tape. He ducks under it and joins Sherlock who is standing immobile and staring at the body on the ground.   
Anderson walks up next to Sherlock.  
‘I’d like to see how even a freak like you can get anything from this,’ he announces. ‘There’s nothing.’  
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin. To a casual observer he would look completely unbothered by Anderson’s sentence, but John can see a slight tightening of Sherlock’s jaw and sees him blink a couple of times. ‘Don’t be ridiculous Anderson. There is always something, you’re just too stupid to see it.’ Slowly he steps forward, craning his long neck at every angle as he analyses the body. John knows that Sherlock is brilliant, but even he is thinking along the same lines as Anderson at this point. It is hard to see how even Sherlock could find a clue from this.  
The body is that of a young woman, perhaps in her mid to late twenties. Certainly no older. She is lying on her back with her arms neatly at her sides and her hands resting on her hip bones. Her legs are gently bent at the knees. She is completely naked... no clothes, no jewellery... absolutely nothing. There is no obvious sign of injury and apart from the fact that her skin is tinged slightly blue from exposure to the cold she could merely be sleeping. This is what Anderson means when he says there is nothing.  
John is aware that Lestrade and Donovan have arrived, but they too stay put, watching Sherlock go to work.  
Sherlock walks around the body a couple of times, examining it from every angle, his eyes scanning everything. Finally he drops to his knees and lifts the arm slightly, seemingly examining the woman’s armpit. He carefully places the arm back in its previous position and then runs a hand through the woman’s blonde hair, frowning to himself. Next he examines the woman’s hands and feet and nods to himself as though he has found something he anticipated.   
He gets to his feet and strides back over to where John and the others are standing.  
‘She was abducted about three to four days ago and was murdered probably early this morning, judging by the rigor mortis I’d say about ten to eleven o’clock, but I’ll leave that to John to confirm.’  
Lestrade coughs. ‘Okay Sherlock, I’ll play along. How the hell can you know she was abducted much less murdered? And how would you know when she was abducted if she was?’  
Sherlock throws up his hands. ‘Oh, it’s so obvious! Her hair is dyed as is indicated by its slightly brittle texture. The fact that the roots are showing through about half a centimetre and the fact that her eyebrows are dark as well supports that notion. Her fingernails and toenails are painted and shaped. The shape is still there but the polish is chipped. That indicates that she takes good care of herself, but for whatever reason she has been unable to perform her usual beauty rituals for sometime. She wouldn’t have let her roots grow out like that, and if she went to the bother of shaping and painting her nails, she wouldn’t have let them become so chipped.’  
John shakes his head in wonder. ‘Amazing,’ he murmurs to himself. Lestrade blinks.  
‘Okay, but three to four days? How do you know that?’  
‘Her armpit. The hair there is about three to four days’ of growth. Judging by the rest of her appearance and the conclusions already drawn, it is safe to say that she would never allow her armpit hair to grow to that extent. Therefore she was abducted about three to four days ago. But you’re missing the most vital clue of all... and the most obvious.’  
John sighs. ‘Naturally.’  
‘The back of her hand. There’s an ink stamp on it. Why do people usually have ink stamps on the backs of their hands?’  
John thinks quickly. ‘Admission stamps, right? But where...’  
‘Oh come on! It’s not that difficult! This is a young woman in her twenties who takes great pride and care in her appearance and who lives in London. She has a stamp on the back of her hand. It has to be a club! She was clubbing on the night she was abducted, I’ll bet you anything. The most important thing to do is identify the club which uses that particular stamp and watch their CCTV footage.’

XXXXXXXXX

‘Okay, so the club that uses that particular stamp is The Vibe...’  
‘Innovative name for a club,’ Sherlock interrupts sarcastically. Lestrade throws him a dark look and continues.  
‘We’ve requested access to their CCTV footage but it may take them some time to respond.’  
‘So what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit and wait?’ John rolls his eyes and glances at Sherlock. Sherlock huffs and starts pacing the room.   
‘You will tell me the minute something happens, won’t you?’ he throws at Lestrade who sighs heavily.  
‘You know I will Sherlock. We expect to hear back from the club by at least tomorrow.’  
‘Well, that’ll just have to do, won’t it?’ Sherlock strides from the room, wrapping his scarf around his throat as he goes. John gestures helplessly towards Lestrade apologetically. Lestrade smiles wryly.  
‘Don’t worry Doctor. Just get him home and try and keep him from killing himself with boredom before tomorrow. Like it or not, we need Sherlock Holmes on this case.’  
John nods and follows his flatmate out of the Yard, catching the same taxi just in time. 

XXXXXXXXXX

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ John calls from the kitchen. Sherlock doesn’t reply. John finishes making his and wanders into the living room, collapsing into his chair with a sigh. Absently he glances at his paperback on the table beside him. He might try and get a few more chapters read tonight... or maybe he’d work on his blog...  
He should have known better. Within a minute of him picking up his book, Sherlock has glanced up from the couch, glaring at John.  
‘Where’s mine?’  
John blinks. ‘What?’  
‘Where’s my cup of tea?’  
‘You didn’t say you wanted one.’  
Sherlock huffs angrily. ‘I nodded, isn’t that enough?’  
John gapes at him. ‘Sherlock I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t see you.’  
‘We’ve been flatmates for awhile now, John. You should know me. I always know when you want a cup of tea. I know pretty much everything about you.’  
John puts his mug down on the table. ‘Sherlock, do you realize how annoying you are sometimes?’ In his head he amends that statement to ‘all of the time’.   
Sherlock looks at him, his expression distinctly mischievous. It is an oddly childish look for him and John finds himself suddenly wondering exactly why he is so angry with Sherlock. It’s difficult for him to be angry when the detective looks at him like that, with that damned smile lurking on his lips.  
‘You tell me frequently, John. I fail to see how I could be oblivious.’ Sherlock twists his hands together and frowns. ‘I just... there has to be another one John. I can’t work properly with just the one body. There need to be more so that I can figure out the pattern...’ John stares at his flatmate. He knows Sherlock doesn’t mean it so coldly but still – these are people he is casually talking about being murdered.  
Sherlock notices and recognizes the look on John’s face. ‘Not good?’ he asks softly.  
‘Bit not good, yeah,’ John replies, in what has swiftly become a bit of a catchphrase between them. Whenever Sherlock is being particularly insensitive or oblivious to normal human emotion he asks that question, and John always responds the same way. Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards into that small smile.  
‘Sorry. But you know what I mean. It’s not that I want another person to die... far from it. It’s just that without a second body there’s so little to go on.’  
John relaxes back into his armchair. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure there will be a development sooner or later.’  
Sherlock nods silently and then his phone goes off. He swipes it up from the table and his eyes widen slightly at the text he has just received.

Did you get my little present? Just something to get your attention, my dear. More to follow – better figure it out quickly! JM

John glances up when he hears the text arrive and frowns at Sherlock’s suddenly slightly distressed expression.  
‘You okay, Sherlock? What is it?’  
Sherlock swallows and puts the phone back on the table. What should he tell John? The last time Moriarty had got involved in their lives, John had ended up with a significant amount of semtex strapped to his chest. Even though John had been a soldier, anyone would have been frightened in that situation. Sherlock will never forget the sudden terror that had ripped through him when he realized exactly what was going on... when John had opened the parka and let him see...  
He had to try and keep John protected from this. John didn’t deserve to have his life tormented more by James Moriarty.  
Sherlock pastes a smile onto his face and glances up at John, who is looking at him anxiously. ‘Nothing important.’


	3. Insults and Memories

Chapter Three

Insults and Memories

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night. John goes up to bed at about half past eleven, warning Sherlock not to stay awake the entire night because it’s not good for him. Sherlock doesn’t listen to him. He has to stay awake. He can’t sleep. Moriarty will not be sleeping and Sherlock has to stay one step ahead.  
He studies the files on the Jane Doe in the alleyway over and over again, searching for the thing which will make all the connections in his mind. Once it is found, this will be child’s play. But while it eludes him...  
At about two o’clock in the morning he takes a break and decides to write a little in his journal. His thoughts about John being in danger are threatening to cloud his mind and he can’t have that. Swiftly he bounds upstairs, his footfalls light as a cat’s on the stairs. John has often complained of Sherlock startling him because he moves so silently, but it has often been a blessing in cases.  
A few minutes later he is back in position on the sofa, applying a fresh nicotine patch to his arm, and twirling his pen in thought.

It is Moriarty behind the new case. I receieved a text from him this evening saying as much. It means there will be more bodies, more clues to this game that he and I play. This is why I have decided to include John as little as possible. He will be confused, and possibly hurt, about being excluded, but I cannot tell him the reason. The man is unreasonably brave and I am sure that will probably get him into trouble one of these days. 

Sherlock pauses for a second and thinks, then tentatively puts his pen to the page again, unsure whether to write his next thoughts down. Yes, he has to. The whole point of this writing in his journal is to clear his mind and this particular feeling is so dominant and potent that left to its own devices it is sure to blind him to the delicate clues he feels sure are coming in the game.

Moriarty can never know exactly how important John is to me. He will use it as leverage against me and John will be in danger. Ever since these new feeling started to emerge I have been doing some research. It turns out that I am attracted to John... perhaps. All I know is that I am happier when he is around, I am more attuned to him than any other person... I care deeply about his opinion of me. From what I have read these all tend to lean towards the conclusion that at the very least I am attracted to him. I will need more data, but that is my tentative hypothesis of the situation. I would never let him know, of course. It would confuse things between us and John seems happy with Sarah, although she is naturally a little too pedestrian for him.

Sherlock sucks at the tip of his pen and scrutinizes that last part of the sentence. Perhaps that is a little too harsh. True, but cruel. After a minute of thought he scribbles it out. Attracted to John... he muses on that for awhile. Out of all the outcomes he had anticipated when John had first moved into 221B Baker Street, him being attracted to John had definitely not been one of them. Sherlock has never really bothered to figure out his sexuality since relationships with other people generally confuse and bewilder him. There is Mycroft who he hates, naturally, but who is still his older brother so he has to have some sort of connection with him. Then there is Lestrade, who before John he probably considered to be the closest thing to a friend he would ever come to having. What is it about John Watson that changes things. Why has he started to care?  
John is oblivious to it, of course, and that is the way it is going to stay. John will probably end up marrying Sarah and move out of London to have children and the whole business. Sherlock unconsciously grimaces in distaste. He honestly would rather be dead than live that sort of life. Where’s the excitement? The thrill? The challenge?   
Almost reluctantly he puts away his notebook and returns to the files, rubbing his fingers against his temples. There has to be something. Something.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John sighs when he comes down the next morning and finds Sherlock fast asleep amind a pile of papers. He clearly spent most of the night trying to work out the case and exhausted himself in the process. John smiles fondly, staring down at the sleeping Sherlock. When he is asleep the frown which is almost constantly present on his forehead seems to smooth itself out, leaving the skin unlined and relaxed. The dark hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes, mussed and dishevelled from the cushions. His body has curled up into the foetal position, arms still clutching at a file, wrinkling the paper.  
John goes into the kitchen to make his usual morning cup of tea and after a second’s thought, decides to make Sherlock one as well. When Sherlock wakes up John is sure that the last thing he will want is a cup of tea but John is determined to make him drink it. He adds two sugars and, on a whim, decides to start making scrambled eggs on toast for him as well. If Lestrade does come up with something for Sherlock to be doing, John would rather that he did it on a full stomach.  
He is startled by a clatter from the living room, just as he is ladling the eggs onto the plate. There is a thump and a muted expletive. Sherlock has woken up then. John pokes his head around the door.  
‘I’m making you breakfast Sherlock, and you’re going to eat it, whether you like it or not.’ Sherlock stares at him in amazement from his position on the floor. He has clearly woken himself up by rolling off the sofa.  
‘I can’t eat breakfast John! I’ve wasted time already! I was supposed to find the connection in the case last night and now...’ He gazes around the mess of papers surrounding him and clutches at his hair. ‘I need to stay ahead of the game, John! Breakfast will slow me down!’  
John laughs aloud, ignoring Sherlock’s scowl, and withdraws his head, calling his reply. ‘No, Sherlock. For a genius you have a remarkably poor grasp of what your body needs to function. Food gives you energy.’ There is a pause and then a mutter from the living room.  
‘Food is dull.’  
John finishes plating up Sherlock’s breakfast, grabs some cutlery and takes it into the living room along with the mug of tea. ‘It may be dull, but it will keep you thinking.’ He smiles as he puts the plate onto the table next to Sherlock. Sherlock glares at him.  
‘Don’t patronize me John. No doubt this is going to work its way into your little blog. Sherlock Holmes cannot see why he has to eat breakfast.’  
‘That didn’t occur to me actually, but that’s pretty good. Thank you.’ He collects his own tea and breakfast from the kitchen and eats quickly, checking his watch to see how much time there is before he has to leave.  
‘No call from the delightful Sarah to see how you are this morning?’ Sherlock’s tone is sarcastic and mocking. John frowns.  
‘I know you don’t like her but there’s no need to be like that, Sherlock. Sarah’s just a very caring person.’  
Sherlock scoffs but does not reply.   
‘Right, I’m off to work. Make sure you eat that.’  
In response Sherlock loads a forkful of egg, places it in his mouth, chews a few times and swallows, holding John’s gaze all the while. ‘Happy now?’  
John has to fight back a smile. Honestly, it is like living with a child. ‘Fine... but eat it all. I’ll see you later. Text me if there’s a break in the case, I’ll come as quick as I can.’  
Sherlock nods but he has no intention of doing so. Now he knows that Moriarty is involved he is going to keep John’s involvement in the case to the absolute minimum.

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock stands at the window, viciously plucking the strings on his violin. Nothing. Nothing. No call from Lestrade, no new bodies and no contact from Moriarty. John left for work about five hours ago and all Sherlock has done in that time is stare at the files blankly, waiting for something to occur to him.   
He would have thought, at the very least, that Lestrade would have contacted him to say if the club had let them have access to the CCTV footage yet. It may not be as exciting as another body but at least it would be something to do.   
He throws the violin onto John’s chair and falls backwards onto the couch, reaching for John’s gun as he does so. When John comes back from work there will be hell to pay for making the wall worse but...  
He fires a few shots without even looking, smiling slightly when he hears the crumbling plaster. Then he hears feet on the stairs. Ah. Mrs Hudson is home then. Hurriedly he stashes the gun under a cushion, folds his arms beneath his head and stares at the ceiling.  
There is the sound of the door opening and Sherlock cracks open one eye to look at his landlady. She is standing in the doorway, clutching onto the frame, her other hand grasping at her chest.  
‘Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?’  
‘Me?’ Sherlock replies in his best innocent tone. ‘Nothing... I’m just lying here having a little rest.’  
Mrs Hudson eyes him suspiciously and then glances at the wall opposite. If she was like him, Sherlock thinks, she would immediately notice the telltale white specks of plaster now littering the carpet below the wall, and the new bullet holes. But the wall is already so messed up it would take someone with Sherlock’s powers of observation to notice. Much as he suspects, she doesn’t.  
‘Sherlock... you haven’t been shooting the wall again, have you?’  
‘I wouldn’t do that, Mrs Hudson.’ She frowns at him, but Sherlock can detect a slightly amused smile lurking on her lips. Suddenly his phone goes off and Sherlock fairly launches himself off the sofa and across the room to where his mobile lies on the table. He snatches it up and scans the message.

I confess myself disappointed. I would have thought you would have found out the mystery by now. I’m going to have to give you another little clue aren’t I? JM

Moving like a whirlwind around the apartment Sherlock grabs everything he needs and frantically types a text to Lestrade on his way out.

There’s another one. On way to Yard now. SH

Pausing by the door he grabs his scarf and wraps it around his neck, before planting a kiss on Mrs Hudson’s temple. The lady gasps with surprise and clutches the frame again.  
‘My goodness. What on earth is it Sherlock?’  
‘Another one, Mrs Hudson! There’s another one!’  
Mrs Hudson frowns slightly. ‘Really, Sherlock, your excitement over these murders... I’m sure it’s not normal.’  
Sherlock pauses for a second before resuming his frantic movements and he bolts down the stairs and out of the door, throwing his parting shot over his shoulder. ‘Who cares about normal, Mrs Hudson? Normal’s boring.’

XXXXXXXXX

Lestrade meets him in the lobby of Scotland Yard. ‘Okay, Sherlock. Care to tell me how you knew it would happen again?’  
‘Nope,’ Sherlock responds, almost dancing on the balls of his feet. ‘Where is it?’  
‘Pelham Street, South Kensington.’  
‘Well, let’s go then!’ Sherlock bounds out of the door and Lestrade follows quickly. ‘Hang on a second... don’t you want to call John?’  
Sherlock turns and something flickers across his eyes so quickly that the next second Lestrade is sure he must have imagined it. ‘John’s at work,’ Sherlock replies, scanning the street for any available taxis.  
‘Yes but, don’t you want to wait until he can come with you? After all, you need an assistant don’t you?’  
‘No, we don’t have to bother John with this. I’ll tell him when he gets back from work. Who’s assisting on the case at the moment?’  
Lestrade pauses before replying. ‘Anderson.’  
Sherlock sucks in a breath through his teeth before muttering under his breath, ‘Naturally.’ Blinking a few times he smiles broadly at Lestrade. ‘Well, needs must. I’m sure I can refrain from killing Anderson just this once.’  
Lestrade shakes his head in slight disbelief. ‘It would be appreciated.’  
A taxi pulls up and Sherlock jumps in calling out, ‘I’ll see you there!’

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock takes long strides down to where he can see the blue and white police tape fluttering in the slight breeze. The immediate area has been cordoned off, and the officer guarding the scene, recognizing Sherlock, allows him to duck under and enter.   
Anderson is standing recording notes in a little book, but he turns when he hears Sherlock approach.  
‘Oh God, not you again. Don’t you have anything better to do?’ There is a tiny pause and then he continues. ‘No, of course you don’t. I forgot, you don’t have a life do you?’ Sherlock doesn’t reply, merely starts towards the body, scanning it and the immediate vicinity. Anderson clearly doesn’t like being ignored. He takes a step towards Sherlock and continues. ‘Where’s your little pet today then? Don’t tell me he’s finally seen sense and left you? I knew it couldn’t be long before he realized what a freak you actually are.’  
‘Shut up, Anderson, I can feel my brain cells dying every time you open your mouth.’ Sherlock circles the body once again. It is the corpse of a young man, no older than the woman found yesterday. Again there is nothing to indicate what the cause of death might be... no obvious signs of violence. Sherlock turns to look at Anderson, though he can think of at least a thousand other things he would rather be doing than engaging him conversation. ‘Have you found out how they died yet?’  
Anderson shakes his head once. ‘We’re working on it.’ Sherlock kneels beside the dead man and examines his head and shoulders, searching for something to latch onto. But Anderson clearly hasn’t finished with him.  
‘Do you know why we all hate you?’ Sherlock tenses for the briefest moment before continuing his examination.  
‘Enlighten me.’  
‘I was talking to Sally about it the other day. We came to the conclusion that you get off on murders, particularly of the serial variety, you regard everyone apart from yourself as some sort of inferior species and that one day when you get too bored, you’ll be committing these crimes yourself. For all we know you may have already started. I mean... how did you know that there had been another murder unless you were the one who put it there?’   
Sherlock’s hands have clenched into fists at his sides and he blinks rapidly, glad that he is turned away from Anderson so the other man can’t see the effect he’s having. ‘Do you know what that makes you, Holmes?’ He doesn’t wait for Sherlock to respond. ‘A psychopath. And a monster. I reckon I was right about you all along. I wonder how long it will be before dear John comes to the same conclusion.’  
‘I’m not a monster.’ Sherlock hisses the words out between his teeth, cursing the moisture that has risen in his eyes and he can now feel trickle down his cheek. Crying twice in about as many days. That must be some kind of record.  
‘No? How else do you explain your fascination with corpses and murders?’ Sherlock can sense Anderson shaking his head behind him. ‘There’s something very wrong with you... you’re sick.’  
Just as Sherlock is about to rise from the ground and do something to make Anderson shut the hell up, a deep voice interrupts.  
‘What’s going on? Sorry I’m a bit late, got caught up in traffic.’  
Lestrade. Sherlock breathes in deeply a couple of times, trying to regulate his heartbeat. Before he stands up he swiftly wipes at his face, getting rid of the tell-tale tears on his cheeks. When he turns to face the two other men, his features are as inscrutable as ever.  
‘Nothing Inspector. The freak and I were just having a little chat.’ Anderson is smirking, his narrowed eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s face. Lestrade’s brows pull together in a frown.  
‘Enough with the namecalling Anderson. You’re not five years old anymore.’ The inspector turns to Sherlock. ‘Well? Have you found anything?’  
Sherlock plunges his hands into his pockets. ‘He was driven here in a car... the tracks are all over the place and there’s a puddle of oil nearby which would indicate a leak. It’s sloppy, very sloppy... it’s like he’s not even trying...’  
‘What?’ Lestrade is clearly confused.  
‘There’s no reason! There’s no logic behind this and that’s wrong... there’s supposed to be something, this just doesn’t make any sense.’ Sherlock clutches at his curls and bites his lip in frustration. He knows Moriarty and this doesn’t add up. It’s like Moriarty isn’t even trying.  
‘Not everyone is a machine like you, freak... not everyone plots out the way they’re going to kill someone. This could be a crime of passion.’ Anderson is smug, his arms folded against his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. Lestrade opens his mouth but Sherlock gets there first.  
‘A crime of passion? You bloody idiot Anderson, you grade-A moron... have you ever seen anything less passionate than this? This is cold and pointless... if it was a crime of passion there would be marks on the body, it would have been unplanned...’ Taking a deep breath Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose tightly. ‘I need to go home... text me tomorrow Lestrade about the poison used to kill them.’  
‘But... Sherlock wait, what are you...?’ But it was no use. Sherlock strides away from them, hands still clenched tightly in his pockets, he can feel his fingernails digging into his palms and that helps keep him focussed. He can still feel the treacherous tears threatening to resurface as Anderson’s poisonous words echo around in his head.

‘I forgot, you don’t have a life do you?’  
‘... couldn’t be long before he realized what a freak you actually are.’  
‘... you get off on murders...’  
‘... psychopath. And a monster.’  
‘There’s something very wrong with you. You’re sick.’

Sherlock finds himself longing for a cigarette as he waits on the pavement, trying to spot a taxi. Never has he wanted to smoke more than he does at this minute. Crouched there in the alley listening to the insults spewing from Anderson’s mouth had taken him right back in time... back to primary school when the kids had immediately latched onto the fact that something was different about Sherlock Holmes.

‘Know-it-all!’  
‘Teacher’s Pet!’  
‘Suck-up!’  
‘Nerd!’

As he’d progressed to secondary school and his mind had grown even more impossibly agile the taunts increased in number and cruelty.

‘Faggot!’  
‘Ass-licker!’  
‘Weirdo!’

And last but not least, the two slurs which would follow him all the way through into his adult life. Freak and Pyscho. What were people so threatened by? What was it about him that made them want to lash out and hurt him? They felt intimidated by him, that was a given. He knows as well that he can be judgemental and harsh sometimes, but the difference is, he never means it from a hurtful place. In his mind he is just being truthful.  
His darling mother hadn’t helped either. From a very young age he remembered her boasting to the other mothers at his various schools...

‘Darling Sherlock has an IQ level of one hundred and forty!’ (This was later proven to be incorrect, his IQ level is actually one hundred and eighty five.)  
‘Sherlock’s such a clever boy... he’s already finished all his set texts and is studying material usually studied by Masters students!’ (This when he was fourteen years old.)

He knows she didn’t mean to sound that way, but her singing his praises didn’t help his popularity either at school or at home. The mothers of the other children would go home and bitch about his mother praising his abilities and thus the children would pick up on it and repeat it to Sherlock in the playground. If he tried acting humble he got accused of being weird and twisted, if he was arrogant he got beaten up and called a psycho. Whichever he chose he couldn’t win.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock is still in a filthy mood as he arrives home. He flings open the door to the apartment and tosses his coat and scarf onto the floor. John wanders into the living room from the kitchen.  
‘Ah... you’re home. Where’ve you been? I’ve been back from work for ages. Was there something new in the case?’  
‘Not now, John. I’m busy.’ The words come out sharp and bitter. John steps back a step.  
‘Okay... no need to bite my head off. Do you want some food? I’ve just made pasta...’  
‘No I do not want food. I do not want anything. I’m fine... just leave me alone John will you?’  
All Sherlock wants to do is escape up to his room and sit in the darkness with his thoughts where no-one can bother him, where no-one can hurt him. He can feel the iron fortress he has so painstakingly built up around his emotions start to crumble and it scares him to death. But still John doesn’t seem to be getting the message.  
‘Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look very good, you’re quite pale. Well, paler than you usually are anyway. Do want me to take a look?’  
Sherlock spins away from John and almost bolts to the door. ‘NO, John! Just leave me alone! I don’t need anything from you!’  
‘Jesus, Sherlock... what on earth’s wrong with you?’ John’s concern has given way to anger. Sherlock has time to realize that with both of them in filthy moods this situation is not going to end well and it would be best to leave before some permanent damage is done. It is clear that at this moment in time his brain isn’t functioning to its full capacity and the consequences of that have always been disastrous. But John’s words have hit a nerve. What’s wrong with you?  
‘There is NOTHING wrong with me, John! Why do people keep thinking that!’ For the first time so far Sherlock has raised his voice and actually yells. He does that so rarely that it is enough to startle John into silence. The doctor gazes at him for a few seconds, anger still smouldering in those deep blue eyes of his.  
‘Fine, Sherlock.’ He raises his hands as if in surrender and his voice is low. ‘You just go and lock yourself away and talk to me later when you’re in a more reasonable mood. I’ll just chuck your dinner away... you won’t eat it anyway.’ Sherlock whirls away from him towards the door and has just reached the stairs to his room when he hears John mutter. ‘Perhaps I will move in with Sarah... this is getting beyond a joke.’


	4. Surprise

Chapter Four

Surprise

John’s alarm wakes him from a restless sleep at seven o’clock. Since it is a Saturday he whacks it into silence and lies in bed, thinking. He still can’t wrap his mind around what can have happened to Sherlock since he left him yesterday morning and when he saw him again last night. That something happened is obvious, even to him. He doesn’t need Sherlock’s genius to figure that out. Sherlock lashed out at him like a wounded animal backed into a corner. John is clever enough to work out that it was nothing he had done. Or perhaps it was. After all, they have been bickering and arguing more than is usual lately. And sometimes he has caught Sherlock looking at him with a distinctly odd expression.  
John sighs and rolls over in bed, staring at the gap in his curtains which is letting the early dawn light filter through. He did call Sherlock a freak, but surely Sherlock understood that it was said in a moment of temper and not meant.   
At about half past eight he sighs, swings his legs out of bed, wraps a dressing gown around him and heads downstairs for breakfast. He was sure it would be expecting too much to see Sherlock up and about, and of course, it is.  
He’d heard him stamping around in his room for quite awhile last night, but at about three o’clock in the morning things had gone quiet. John had had to draw on every ounce of strength he had not to go up there and see if his flatmate was alright. A feeling of resentment bubbles through him. Why should he have to cater to Sherlock’s every whim? Why should he feel bad and guilty because Sherlock had returned home in a thoroughly nasty mood and bitten his head off?  
John allows this feeling to simmer inside him as he makes his habitual cup of tea and fixes his breakfast. By the time he has finished his cereal the tiny flicker of resentment has flared into anger. He throws his bowl and mug down on the counter in the kitchen, knocking a test-tube filled with God knows what off the side in the process. For a second he stares at it guiltily. Sherlock has been tending to that test-tube over the past few days with all the love and attention someone would usually give to a newborn baby.  
Freak.  
The horrible thought crosses his mind before he can help it. Feeling angrier than ever he thunders up to Sherlock’s bedroom and bangs on the door.  
‘Sherlock!’  
There is no answer. Sherlock is either passed out asleep or ignoring him. Given their fight last night and the fact that Sherlock very rarely sleeps, John is disposed to assume it is the latter. Well... he is done caring about what Sherlock does anymore.   
‘I’m going out! We need to get food in and I suppose I’ll be the one paying for it... again.’ Still, no answer. John punches the side of the wall and immediately regrets it as pain flares through his knuckles.  
‘Fine! If you’re going to act like a spoiled child, that’s fine! I’ll see you later.’

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock, lying awake on his bed, hears John’s little tirade and sighs. Really he should have known it was too good to last, he should have known John would get tired of him eventually. What makes it almost unbearable is the fact that John has come to mean so much to him over the past few months. He doesn’t understand how others can do this. How they can open themselves up to hurt and pain so often in pursuing relationships. John Watson is the only person he has actually allowed himself to care about, the only person with the power to deeply hurt him.   
He is lucky that he is a skilled actor and John’s powers of deduction are small. Otherwise he is sure he would have been found out by now. And having John find out about how he feels about him is something that can never happen. He is not sure his mind could stand up to John’s inevitable rejection.   
Stupid he thinks to himself. Stupid, stupid. How on earth could he have let himself get into this situation? It would be so much easier if he was a sociopath, if he truly didn’t have emotions. In Sherlock’s experience, emotions merely cloud your mind and lead to trouble. The first is unthinkable. The second he can really do without.  
Eventually he hears the front door slam, and he leaps up from the bed and peers out the window. Sure enough he can see John stride down the pavement towards the bus stop, a couple of carrier bags in his hand. The ache in his chest starts up again.  
Stop it. Forget John. Think about the case. The case. What is Moriarty thinking?  
On the spur of the moment he decides to take John’s advice and get out of the flat for a bit. Who knows, it might even help him think. 

Forty-Five Minutes Later

‘Well, that was pointless,’ Sherlock mutters to himself as he lets himself into the apartment. Going for a walk was not a good idea. His brain appears to have gone into some kind of meltdown and he found that everything irritated him while outside. He unwraps his scarf from his neck and flings it in the direction of the clothes-hook, where, by some miracle, it stays. The apartment is cold and he decides to leave his coat on for awhile, fingering a safety pin in the pocket as he leaps up the stairs.  
Entering the living room he pauses.  
What’s wrong? What’s different? Something is, he can tell that immediately. He stands stock-still while he surveys the room, looking for what is out of place. Suddenly his eyes latch onto John’s laptop, standing open on the table.  
That wasn’t open before I left... it was shut down.  
He drops his scarf and coat onto the floor and takes a step forward. From this angle he can see that something is playing on the screen. If someone had entered the apartment, Mrs Hudson would know.  
‘Mrs Hudson?’ he calls out in a low voice, still keeping his eyes on the laptop. There is no reply. She is out, then. Whoever it was certainly chose a good time to break in. And yet there was no sign of the lock being forced and surely a laptop would be a prime item to steal. Slowly, his eyes flicking from left to right as he goes, Sherlock approaches the computer and sits down in the chair.  
It’s a video. It takes his mind a second to process what he’s seeing. Who he’s seeing.  
‘That’s John,’ he mutters, drumming his fingers on the table. The video is playing what is clearly a live feed of John doing the shopping at the supermarket. Right at this minute he is standing with his hands on his hips, the trolley standing next to him, staring at a row of tinned goods, obviously choosing which one to select. Sherlock sees him bite his lip... sees his blue eyes dart from left to right as he scans the rows. ‘What the hell?’  
‘Surprise!’  
Sherlock jumps from his seat, spinning around to stare at the archway leading through to the kitchen. A small, slender man stands there, one dark eyebrow crooked in amusement, brown eyes glittering. He smiles as Sherlock stares at him and walks forward a few steps. Sherlock automatically backs away slightly.  
‘I am sorry for just barging in on you like this Sherlock. I know it’s very rude of me. But you see, I had a suspicion that you wouldn’t open the door if I were to knock.’  
Sherlock recovers his self-possession a little and folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Moriarty.  
‘Your suspicion would have been correct,’ he snaps out, wondering what on earth he is going to do next. Thank God John is out at the supermarket and so out of harm’s way. Which reminds him... ‘What’s this on the laptop? Why are you playing a video of John shopping?’   
With Moriarty he knows it is best to get straight to the point. Otherwise they could spend hours dodging and dancing around each other.  
Moriarty claps his hands together in delight. ‘Oh, but this is brilliant! Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know what’s going on!’  
Sherlock frowns. ‘I simply fail to see how John doing a food shop has any relevance to...’  
‘Slowly, slowly Sherlock. Let’s take one thing at a time, shall we? This is merely the next step in our little game. Except I may have been a tad naughty.’ Moriarty’s face crinkles into what is obviously supposed to be a look of faux contrition. ‘I may have cheated a teensy bit.’  
Sherlock glances from the laptop to Moriarty and back again. Just at this crucial moment his brain seems to have failed him. The sight of John on the video is distracting him and clouding his judgement. He just can’t seem to understand the significance of the video, or what Moriarty is planning. And this puts him in a very vulnerable position. Moriarty has changed the rules. That much is obvious. So far their little game has been played out at a distance, apart from the incident at the pool. But even then Moriarty had not been alone... there had been as much chance of killing him as there would have been had he been his usual distant self.  
Idly he wonders if he could take Moriarty out right now. True, it would mean a premature end to the game which wouldn’t be much fun at all. But Moriarty looks like he is alone, even if he does act supremely confident as if he doesn’t have anything to fear from the consulting detective. Sherlock’s mind flashes to John’s gun. If he could just get the gun then he would be in the superior position. Where did John leave it? He wouldn’t have taken it to the supermarket with him...  
Aha... the cushion on the sofa. You stashed it there when Mrs Hudson came up and interrupted you shooting the wall.  
Slowly Sherlock starts to move towards the sofa – casually, as though he is unaware he is doing so. Moriarty watches him calmly, disinterestedly, and then glances around at the living room.  
‘Dear, dear, you do make a lot of mess, don’t you? I wonder how John can stand it. Or perhaps that is why you and he have been arguing a lot recently. Trouble in paradise?’  
Sherlock stops, momentarily distracted from his aim of retrieving the gun from under the cushion.  
‘How on earth would you know anything about it Moriarty?’ His voice is bored and lazy, almost his usual insolent drawl as if he couldn’t care less about the answer, but his mind is racing. How would Moriarty know he and John had been arguing more recently? Could he have bugged the apartment without them noticing? Impossible. I notice everything. He couldn’t have missed something that big and important. Could he?  
Moriarty’s grin stretches wider, almost resembling the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. ‘Oh, wouldn’t you like to know Sherlock. But I’m not going to tell you.’  
Sherlock reaches the sofa. Swiftly, gracefully, he grabs the gun from under the cushion and spins around to point it at Moriarty. ‘That’s enough, Moriarty,’ he murmurs, glad that he has the situation under control again. Perhaps now his mind will be able to function at its usual impossible high-speed.  
Moriarty does not look surprised or worried in the slightest about having a gun pointed in his face. He raises his hands in mock surrender.  
‘Oooh, you caught me!’ he giggles in his high-pitched Irish accent. Abruptly the laughing expression drops from his face, reminding Sherlock again how quickly he can switch moods. Now he is glowering and he lowers his hands. ‘Or not. You can fire that gun Sherlock, if you wish, but I would advise against it.’  
‘Oh really? Why... because you’ll be disappointed in me?’  
‘Oh, I’d definitely be disappointed, yes. An end to the game – and just when we were having so much fun. But no, I advise you against firing that gun in your best interests, actually.’  
‘My best interests? I can assure you, Moriarty... there are other games I can play. I don’t need you to save me from boredom.’  
‘Well maybe, maybe not. But if you really want to see how firing that gun would affect you Sherlock, I suggest you take a walk back to the laptop and have a look at the video. Don’t worry... I’m not going anywhere. This is going to be fascinating.’  
Sherlock pauses for a second and then moves back to the computer, making sure to keep the gun aimed at Moriarty the entire time. Swiftly he glances down at the screen, before raising his eyes to his arch-enemy again. A second. That’s all he needed to understand the situation. John is still shopping, now selecting tomatoes by the looks of it. But there was something different to last time. Just for the briefest moment, Sherlock saw the circular flash of red hovering on John’s jacket... just above his heart.  
The gun wavers before he regains enough control to hold it steady. He is caterpaulted back into the past, to the scene beside the pool. How he felt when he had seen John decked out in all that semtex. Fear. Pure fear, an emotion he has hardly ever felt, and never for himself.  
‘How?’ is all he can manage to croak out, unable to stop himself glancing back down at the video. The red dot has disappeared but Sherlock knows what he saw.  
Moriarty laughs gaily, throwing his head back. ‘Oh, I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, I am a powerful man, Sherlock. I have fingers in many pies... you’d be astounded at the things I can do. Yes, even you, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. But I think now, you begin to understand the situation. Yes... yes, I can see you do. You don’t think I missed the fear in your eyes just now? Only there for a second but as clear as anything. Excellent.’  
‘What exactly is it that you want, Moriarty? Do you even know? Or are you just doing this for no reason?’  
‘Oh, there’s a reason. But I shan’t reveal it to you just yet.’ Moriarty smiles again, showing Sherlock his pearly white teeth, wanders over to the sofa, sits down and flings one leg over the other casually. ‘I took the liberty of making myself at home while you were out on your walk. I hope you don’t mind. I actually found something rather interesting. I had a quick peek... you know I’m so dreadfully nosy and it made such fascinating reading.’   
Sherlock’s stomach drops as he sees Moriarty pull a slim black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and wave it at Sherlock. His journal. How did Moriarty find his journal? It had been hidden...  
‘Very pedestrian of you really. Disappointingly so. A journal?’ Moriarty snorts in derision. ‘Still, I have to admit it has come in very useful.’ He eyes Sherlock disdainfully, contempt shining out of his eyes. Sherlock suspects that he is, for the first time, seeing Moriarty showing a genuine kind of emotion. ‘A sociopath who cares. What is the world coming to?’ He flips the journal open and begins reading excerpts aloud.  
‘John and I cooked dinner together today.’ Moriarty raises his eyes to Sherlock a strange horrible light dancing in his eyes. ‘Awwww. John was flushed and breathing hard, and for some reason he was endlessly fascinating to me... John and I have had another fight... he has seen me, and he wants to leave.’ Moriarty’s voice is mocking. ‘You’re breaking my heart here, Sherlock... but look, there’s more. This is the best part. Moriarty can never know exactly how important John is to me.’   
Sherlock is frozen in place, unable to speak, move or take any other kind of decisive action. Moriarty knows. He knows everything, all of Sherlock’s innermost feelings, everything he has tried to hide. And he knows about John. Sherlock has just handed him the most crucial weapon of all.  
Moriarty is gazing at Sherlock, tapping one finger against his chin, a twisted smile on his lips. ‘You know, when I first came up with this idea it was just another little game... innocent and fun for both parties. But now... now it’s a whole new ballgame! This has turned out better than I ever expected!’  
Sherlock forces himself to speak, although when the words come they sound distant and unconnected, as though it is not him talking. ‘I suppose you’re going to kill John, aren’t you? You’re predictable like that. You’re going to kill him and then watch me fall apart.’  
Moriarty leaps up from the sofa and Sherlock instinctively backs away a little. Moriarty’s face is flushed with a sudden fury.  
‘I am not predictable! You actually think I want John? John Watson? One of the dullest people on the planet? No, no, no. My target from the beginning has been you, Sherlock. The one other person I know of who can challenge me, compete with my intelligence. The sociopath versus the psychopath.’ Moriarty grimaces in distaste. ‘Only now it turns out you are not a sociopath at all. No matter. It will merely give this particular game an edge.’  
Sherlock attempts desperately to control and manage his growing fear and panic. It will not do to fall apart at this point in the proceedings. The main aim now, the only aim, is to stop John from getting hurt. Nothing else matters. If that means he has to play along with Moriarty for now, then he will.  
‘And what game is it we’re playing now?’ He forces his voice to again sound cold and bored, something he has had a lot of practice at. Only Mycroft and John would have a chance at guessing how he is truly feeling. John.  
Moriarty smiles again, a smile without any warmth, humour or feeling. A smile which chills even Sherlock Holmes. The smile of a true pyschopath.  
‘We’re playing the endgame now, Sherlock. I’ve had my fun with you. This game we’re playing now...’ Slowly Moriarty advances towards Sherlock and the detective finds that he is rooted to the spot, unable to move away from those sparking brown eyes. ‘... this game we’re playing now is called “Break Sherlock”. You know it isn’t going to be enough for me to simply kill you. Boring. Dull.’ The last two words come out like a whipcrack. Sherlock hears himself saying those very words in almost the exact same tone of voice and winces. Moriarty is right up close to him now, and even though the man is smaller than him, somehow he seems to tower over Sherlock. ‘We’re going to see how much it takes to break you. And the best part is this. We’re going to leave it up to John to find you... if he can. We’ll see how good a teacher you were to him in the “art of deduction”,’ Moriarty makes quotes in the air with his fingers. ‘And also, of course, if he cares enough for you to make an effort, which, given the past few days – I somehow doubt.’ Moriarty cocks his head to one side. ‘It’s sad really. One of the only people who you actually care about, who you have systematically pushed away for days and who now probably hates your guts... he’s your only chance.’ Sherlock glances down at the video again. John is in the bakery section, seemingly undivided between white or brown bread. He still looks angry and annoyed, presumably from their latest fight. Moriarty follows Sherlock’s gaze. ‘I’m not a complete monster, Sherlock...’ He appears to rethink that statement. ‘Well, actually, yes, I am... but I will give you a phone call. One call. Don’t tell him anything is wrong or bang. Doctor Watson’s dead.’   
Sherlock eyes him warily, unsure as to whether this is a serious offer. Moriarty backs off a little and stands a few paces away from Sherlock, in a position where he can still see the video.   
‘Go ahead. Make the call. No longer than two minutes. Then we’re leaving. And put it on loudspeaker. I want to check you’re not going to cheat.’  
Slowly Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. Still watching Moriarty he hits speed-dial one, switches to loudspeaker mode and holds the phone to his ear, transferring his gaze from the psychopath to the screen. Perhaps John will realize how unlike him it is to call instead of text and will realize that something is wrong.  
The dial-tone starts up in his ear. Onscreen he watches John pat around in his pockets, clearly trying to locate his phone. He retrieves it and Sherlock winces as John checks the caller ID and frowns very obviously.   
‘Yes? What is it, Sherlock?’ His body language on the screen is very telling of his annoyance and anger. His whole torso has tensed and his free hand has clenched into a slight fist. Sherlock, for once in his life, is lost for words. He doesn’t know what to say... what he can say.  
‘I...’  
‘You’d better have a good reason for calling me. I swear, if it’s because you want me to come home immediately and hand you something which is sitting across the room from you I will literally...’  
‘No, no it’s not that.’  
‘Then what is it? I’m trying to do the food shop here, so that we can both eat. Which reminds me, do you want white or brown bread?’  
Sherlock blinks. ‘Er... I...’  
John huffs impatiently and on the video Sherlock can see him frown with frustration. ‘Come on Sherlock, put that great mind of yours to work.’ The sarcasm is evident in his tone. ‘Brown or white?’  
‘Erm... white, please.’ Absently he thinks that John will probably pick up brown regardless, due to the fact that John is very health conscious and knows that brown bread is better for you. There is also the possibility that he will choose brown just to spite Sherlock. He would understand completely if he did. He watches John’s hand hesitate over a brown loaf, then sees him sigh and fling a couple of white loaves into the trolley. Something hitches in his chest and he finds it suddenly difficult to breathe.  
‘Right, okay, white it is. You know it’s bad for you, don’t you?’  
‘I, yes, I do. Thank you, John.’ Something in his tone must have caught John’s attention, even in the midst of his bad mood. He sees the doctor relax his hand slightly and his expression becomes momentarily gentler.  
‘Sherlock, are you alright?’ Sherlock hesitates. What on earth should he say? ‘Sherlock?’  
Moriarty waves a hand as if urging him to speak and Sherlock sees his other hand depress something in his pocket. Onscreen the little red dot appears over John’s chest again and Sherlock’s heart almost stops.  
‘I... I’m fine. I just...’  
‘Well, what did you want?’ The impatience is back. Sherlock can understand why he feels frustrated. From John’s point of view it must seem as though Sherlock has disturbed him yet again for no reason. There are so many things he wants to say, suddenly, now that he is faced with what is very possibly his last ever conversation with the doctor. But there is nothing he can say. Not without ensuring John’s death. The dot still hovers and Sherlock sees a slight movement of Moriarty’s fingers as if he is about to press whatever it is in his pocket which will end John’s life.  
‘Nothing,’ he says abruptly, desperately, for the lack of anything better to say.  
‘Nothing?’ John’s voice is resigned and flat. ‘You... Sherlock, Jesus... okay, fine. Fine. I’ll see you later.’  
‘John, I...’  
But the line has gone dead. On the video Sherlock sees John punch the end-call button and shove the phone back into his pocket, scowl firmly back in place.  
Moriarty steps forward... the little dot on John’s chest has vanished. Sherlock’s nemesis mock pouts.  
‘Oh dear. That didn’t go very well at all, did it? I don’t know about you, but I don’t really fancy your chances much. I’m not even sure he’s going to bother to find you.’  
And for once, Sherlock finds himself reluctantly agreeing with Moriarty, and the pain in his chest flares. But just in case, just in case, he needs to do something which will give John a clue as to what has happened to him. But he’s out of time and there’s nothing... his mind suddenly flashes to a possible solution. The pin. The safety pin in the coat pocket. But Moriarty would need to be distracted...  
‘You’re not going to leave the laptop running that programme are you? You’d better make sure it’s all off or John’s going to know as soon as he logs on what has happened.’ Good. His voice sounds even and hardly bothered at all. Moriarty glances sharply at him.  
‘Good call. I might even have forgotten about that, what with all the excitement.’ Moriarty walks over to the computer and Sherlock slips his hand into his coat pocket, fumbling his fingers to get the clasp of the pin unlatched. It takes a few seconds as his palms have become a little slippery with sweat, but finally he manages it. Moriarty is hunched over the laptop, clearly confident that Sherlock will not go anywhere while John is still in possible danger. Sherlock takes advantage of his momentary distraction to work the sharp point of the pin into the centre of his palm. The pain is sharp and it focuses his mind. Swiftly he works it deeper into his skin making sure that the flesh will be broken and torn as much as is possible with a safety-pin point.   
Moriarty flips the laptop lid shut and stands up, stretching his hands above his head.  
‘Well, it’s been fun but we must be on our way.’ He bows sardonically to Sherlock. ‘After you. Put the gun back under the cushion. There’s a car out front. Get into the back and no misbehaving now.’  
Sherlock shrugs and walks over to the sofa, placing the gun beneath the cushion, being careful to pick the cushion up with his fingertips, making sure his injured palm doesn’t make contact with the material. He crosses the room then and leaves, deliberately leaning his injured hand against the doorframe as he passes it. Moriarty doesn’t even glance that way. For extra measure he makes sure to open the front door with his bleeding palm pressed hard against the doorknob. Hopefully there will be enough blood for John to notice. Hopefully. He gets into the back of the dark car waiting at the curb and Moriarty slides in beside him. The car pulls away from the pavement and a few seconds later turns the corner. Gone.


	5. A Discovery

Chapter Five

A Discovery

John’s bad mood has disappated slightly during the supermarket shop, but as he drags the laden bags out of the taxi and up the steps of 221 Baker Street there is still a residual annoyance coursing through him. Of course, it would probably be too much to ask that Sherlock help with the shopping, but as he slams the front door shut he decides to try anyway.  
‘Sherlock? I’m back! Can you give me a hand with these bags?’ No answer. The apartment is silent. John glances to his left and notices that Sherlock’s scarf is hanging on the nail. He’s in then. He’s just ignoring John. Sighing heavily, John heaves the first couple of bags up the stairs and into the living room. Empty. Sherlock must be in his room... sulking, probably. John shrugs his shoulders and makes several more trips until all the shopping is gathered in the kitchen and then begins putting it away.  
Ten minutes later he is finished. He makes a cup of tea and sinks down into his armchair preparing for a little relaxing nap while the apartment is silent. After awhile, however, the silence begins to unnerve him. If Sherlock is indeed home then there should be more noise from his room than this. Usually if he is in there he would be working on some experiments and John has become accustomed to the bangs, thuds, explosions and occasional curses that emanate from Sherlock’s room. What he is not accustomed to is this deadly silence.  
He heaves himself up from the armchair and makes his way to Sherlock’s room, knocking gently on the door.  
‘Sherlock? You awake?’ If he’s actually asleep it will be a miracle. There’s no response. John steels himself and gently pushes the door open.   
Sherlock’s room is a tip. There is no other way to describe it. Half-finished experiments lie around in varying stages of decomposition. The smell is really quite awful and John automatically blocks his nose with his hand. How can Sherlock live like this? After spending any time in a room that stinks this badly John would have expected Sherlock to smell as well. And yet, somehow, he doesn’t.   
Although the room is incredibly cluttered, it only takes John a second to ascertain that Sherlock isn’t in it. He frowns to himself, drumming his fingers on the woodwork near the door.   
Slowly he makes his way back down to the sitting room, makes himself a new cup of tea and sits in his armchair again preparing to settle back with his book. Sherlock has probably received some more evidence of the possible serial-murderer case from Lestrade. Usually he would text John immediately with the details, but considering how well they have been getting on lately, John suspects that Sherlock might not have told him.  
Still, there is a niggling unease in the back of his mind. Several times he glances over at his laptop for no apparent reason. The apartment is just so... quiet. Sherlock has left him alone in the apartment before, of course he has. But somehow it has always seemed different to how it seems now. The very air seems more oppressive.  
Suddenly something catches his eye from across the room. A dark stain on the woodwork of the door leading out to the stairs. Taking another deep sip from his tea he places it back on the table beside him and gets out of his chair, walks across the room and stares at the mark. It looks like... blood. Blood? Why would blood be on the wall... aha. Sherlock and his experiments. He probably cut himself and leaned against the wood at one point. It wouldn’t be the first time he has done it.   
John is about to wander back to his chair when he changes his mind and peers closer at the stain. There is something unusual about it. It almost looks as if Sherlock dragged his hand or whatever it was very purposefully against the wood. Why would he do that? The niggling unease builds in intensity, but John tries to fight against unreasonable panic. So many things that Sherlock does are inexplicable – this could merely be another one of them.   
Slowly, glancing back a couple of times at the bloodstain, he returns to his chair and his book. 

Half an Hour Later

John sighs and puts down his book. He has read the same sentence at least ten times over now. Something is wrong. What it is, he has no idea. In a sudden fit of temper he throws his book across the room where it lands face down, the pages bent. Instantly he feels slightly bad. He has always taken great pride in the few books he owns, treating them almost as treasures. He doesn’t usually get much time for reading, it is a pleasure he indulges in too rarely. Irrationally annoyed with himself he gets up and fetches the book from its position on the floor across the room. As he stands up his eye catches the coat hook next to the front door. Sherlock’s scarf hanging on it. But no coat.   
He’s gone out without his scarf but with his coat. That makes no sense. Sherlock never leaves the house without his scarf. Why would he have done so today? John frowns knowing that he is probably missing something completely obvious. In his mind he can hear Sherlock’s voice.  
Why can’t people think? Why can’t people notice details?  
Details. Small, insignificant details. Sherlock has always told him that it is more often than not the small things that most people regard as completely insignificant which can often be the solving clue to a case or a puzzle.   
Think, John.   
Okay. The scarf but the missing coat. The bloodstains on the wall. What... what is this telling him? John feels sure that the answer is staring him in the face. If only he could grab it. He suspects that this might be like a situation in some of those films when the character is being so obviously dense you end up almost screaming at the screen.  
‘I’m trying,’ he mutters aloud to himself. Then, suddenly, he has it. He feels like these little details are falling into place in his brain, forming a picture which previously had been hidden from him. The scarf. The blood. And something else, something he’d forgotten entirely. Sherlock rang him at the supermarket. He sounded distinctly odd, but John had been too angry at that moment to really notice. But that wasn’t even the most important clue. Sherlock had rung him. Not texted. Rung.  
‘Since when does Sherlock ever ring?’ John is aware he is talking to himself, but he doesn’t much care. The clues are clicking with a deathly finality into place. The scarf. The phone-call. The blood. Oh God, the blood.  
Frantically, hoping against hope that he is overreacting, hoping that he is being completely stupid, John dashes for his phone and dials Lestrade’s number. The inspector picks up on the third ring.  
‘Lestrade.’  
‘Lestrade, it’s John. John Watson.’  
Lestrade’s voice loses some of its brittle professionalism and turns slightly warmer. ‘Oh, hi John. How are you doing?’  
‘Erm, yeah... I’m okay. Listen, I need to ask you something.’ John is aware that his voice sounds slightly hysterical. It is something that Lestrade has clearly picked up on as well as he answers warily.  
‘Yes, what’s the problem?’  
‘Has... has Sherlock been on the case for you today, do you know?’  
‘Uh, no. No, I haven’t seen him since he examined the second corpse. Why? Is he okay?’ A hint of concern has crept into the inspector’s voice. John clenches his fists.  
‘I’m not sure. He’s not at the apartment... his scarf’s in the hallway and there’s blood on the wall.’  
Lestrade, knowing Sherlock, immediately grasps the implications of the first clue. He sucks in a breath. ‘Well, that’s not conclusive evidence something has gone wrong, John. Maybe he just didn’t want to take his scarf whererever he was going.’  
‘Yes, but there’s the blood. And also I got a phone-call from him today at the supermarket Lestrade.’ John pauses and then repeats for emphasis. ‘A phone-call. Do you know how often Sherlock Holmes calls people?’  
‘Not often.’  
‘No. Lestrade I think... I think he’s been taken. Against his will. I think he was trying to leave a message for me.’  
‘Okay. Listen, John, just wait at the apartment. I’ll be over as soon as I can.’  
‘Fine. And just... hurry, okay?’  
There is a brief silence. ‘Will do.’ The line goes dead. John sinks onto the sofa and rests his head in his hands. 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock comes to with a slight groan. As he regains consciousness he does a quick inventory in his mind. A pounding ache in his head. Moisture near his ear. His wrists are chained, metal by the feel of it on his skin.   
Carefully he opens his eyes and looks around. He is alone. He ascertains that right away. The room he is in is medium sized and has the look of some underground cellar or dungeon. The walls are of flagged stone, as is the floor. It’s damp.  
Predictable, he thinks to himself. It disappoints him somewhat. Somehow he expected Moriarty to be more... what? Innovative? Possibly. But a dungeon? With chains? He rolls his eyes, even though there is nobody there to see.  
Carefully he investigates if he can move his arms. He can... the chains are fastened to the floor he is sitting on and he is allowed a certain amount of freedom. Raising his hand to his ear he investigates the moisture. Blood.   
That would explain the ache in his head. His last recollection is of Moriarty turning to him in the back of the car and bringing the butt of a gun down on his temple. Dull. Boring. Sherlock can’t deny, however, that as a means of rendering him unconscious it was nevertheless effective.  
For the lack of anything better to do he rattles his chains loudly. There is a stairway leading up to a wooden door just ahead of him and to his left. In the crack between the door and the stone steps is a narrow strip of light, which would indicate a room beyond. So, definitely a cellar then.  
After a few minutes he hears footsteps and the door at the top of the steps flies open, releasing a flood of golden light into the cellar. Sherlock closes his eyes until they adjust to the glare. When he opens them he sees Moriarty making his way delicately down the steps into Sherlock’s prison.  
The consulting criminal finally reaches him and kneels down so that he is on Sherlock’s level.  
‘Well, well, well. Here we are, Sherlock! How do you like your new room?’  
Sherlock’s eyes scan the walls again, before returning his gaze, unflinching, to Moriarty. ‘It could do with a bit of colour.’  
Moriarty claps his hands together in obvious delight. Or at least, a parody of delight. ‘You crack me up, Sherlock! Honestly you do.’ Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow.  
Moriarty rocks back on his heels, throwing his head back. ‘Oh don’t make that face at me, Sherlock! You know how it turns me on!’ Sherlock can’t help his eyes widening in surprise. He should have expected something like this... after all the man is clearly unhinged. Who knows what is real and what is false with him?   
Abruptly, and without any warning, Moriarty lashes out at full force and slaps Sherlock across the face. Sherlock’s head snaps to the right and cracks against the stone wall. The pain is almost unbearable, due to the fact that the wound inflicted from Moriarty’s gun is on the right side of his head.  
Sherlock swallows his gasp of pain and blinks a few times, trying desperately to keep himself under control. Finally he has it and he opens his eyes and turns back to Moriarty, calm disgust in his gaze.  
‘I am sorry, Sherlock. I really didn’t mean to do that. It is such a shame to mar something so... beautiful.’ Moriarty reaches out a hand and caresses Sherlock’s angular cheek. The consulting detective flinches back from the touch automatically. Moriarty frowns.  
‘Aha. You don’t like anyone touching you like that. Except perhaps a certain Doctor Watson. Too bad he’ll never want you when I’m finished with you.’  
Sherlock attempts another roll of his eyes, but he feels it lacks conviction. The touch from Moriarty has unnerved him.  
‘Right. Anyway. Time to move on, eh, Sherlock? No time like the present. I’m going to send a little gift to John Watson, just in case he hasn’t figured out you’re not coming back yet. Which is entirely possible. The man is beyond stupid, we both know that.’  
Wrong, Sherlock thinks. Moriarty is seriously underestimating John’s intellect. Of course it in no way compares to mine, but he is far from stupid. It might be something I can use to my advantage.  
Moriarty claps his hands and Sherlock sees two huge men lumber down the stairs into the cellar. He resists the urge to again roll his eyes. Exactly how does Moriarty think he is going to escape?   
The men unchain his arms and manoeuvre him to his feet. Sherlock is pleased to see that his legs feel quite steady under him. Swiftly he is hauled up the stairs and placed in a chair in a room which is entirely white. He feels sure this room has been scanned carefully for anything which could reveal his location.   
His two guards place him in a chair in front of a table. On the table is a strange device. It appears to be five leather rings with a large leather ring below it. He frowns, attempting to coax his brain into action.  
It becomes clear as Moriarty carefully places all the fingers and thumb of his left hand into the five rings. The criminal pulls on something below the table and the leather tightens almost painfully around Sherlock’s fingers, holding them to the table. The way the rings are positioned means that Sherlock’s hand is splayed against the table. Moriarty then places the remaining, larger, leather ring around Sherlock’s wrist, tightening it again until it is holding Sherlock’s hand firmly in place.  
Sherlock glances up. Directly in front of him is a video camera. This isn’t going to be good. He swallows.  
Moriarty stands just behind the camera, looking at Sherlock with a gleeful expression on his face. ‘I bet you can guess what’s going to happen, Sherlock. You probably don’t even need to be a genius to figure it out. But we need to send a little message to John.’  
Swiftly he moves around and switches on the camera, standing in front of it now, and blocking Sherlock and the table from sight.  
‘Dear John Watson. I suspect that you may not be alone when you watch this...’

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade rubs his temples tiredly. He has spent the whole day at 221B Baker Street with an increasingly stressed John Watson. Through all the time that Lestrade has known the ex-army doctor he has never seen him like this. Usuallly he projects an aura of calm control at all times. Now John’s sandy hair is sticking on end due to all the times he has run his hands through it, and his eyes are slightly puffy with stress.  
‘Let’s just think about this for a second, John,’ Lestrade says eventually, after a long silence during which he sips his tea and John paces the apartment agitatedly. ‘We don’t know for sure that Sherlock has been kidnapped. You know what he’s like. He’s probably gone out doing God knows what and just not told you.’  
‘Then what about his scarf?’ John throws back at Lestrade. ‘You know he never leaves his scarf. And there’s the blood. And what about that phone-call? I’m telling you, he sounded really odd – not like himself at all. If I hadn’t been so angry with him I would have noticed right then.’  
‘Tell me again, what exactly did he say?’  
John clutches at a tuft of his hair. ‘I can’t remember exactly. I was asking him which bread he wanted... I asked what was the matter, why he was ringing me. He didn’t answer properly. I was a bit short with him. But I was annoyed... I couldn’t help it.’  
Lestrade checks his watch. It is ten o’clock in the evening. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go, John. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Try and get some sleep and if you don’t hear from Sherlock in another few days we’ll... think of something to do. Fill out a missing person form for a start.’  
John stares at him in astonishment. ‘A missing person’s form? Lestrade, whoever has taken Sherlock is clever. Clever enough to kidnap him, of all people. I don’t think a missing person form is going to help!’  
Lestrade shrugs, feeling desperately sorry for John Watson but unable to think of anything else he can do. ‘Well, we’ll talk about it some more later. But I bet you anything he’ll be back tomorrow full of some new hare-brained scheme he wants your help with.’  
John stands as well and stares directly at the Inspector. ‘I hope you’re right, Lestrade. I sincerely hope you’re right. Because the alternative is... I don’t even want to think about it.’  
Lestrade nods, contemplates holding his hand out to the doctor, thinks better of it, nods again and then heads out of the apartment. Truth be told he is worried too, but then again he has known Sherlock for over five years, and this wouldn’t be the first time he has disappeared without a trace for a couple of days.   
John watches him leave and then sinks back down onto the sofa. He knows that what Lestrade is saying makes sense, but yet he doesn’t believe it. Somewhere deep inside him he knows that something bad has happened to Sherlock. What can he do? There is nothing to help him... only a bloodstain, a scarf and an awkward phone-call.  
What would Sherlock have done right now? He’d probably have noticed some unusual pattern on the bloodstain or something which would have provided an important clue which would solve the whole mystery.  
John has just begun to heave himself out of the sofa with the aim of actually going over and examining the stain again when he hears the front door chime and Mrs Hudson pattering down the hall to open it. He ignores it, except when he hears a certain deep voice greeting Mrs Hudson and then thundering footsteps ascending the stairs to the apartment. He pauses in the middle of the living room, near the armchair.  
Mycroft Holmes strides into the room, his habitual furled umbrella by his side as usual. He is agitated, John can see that immediately, and his umbrella is being tapped nervously on the floor.  
‘John,’ he greets him curtly, scanning the room.  
‘Mycroft... it’s, well, good to see you. Erm... Sherlock, Sherlock isn’t here, at the moment, but...’  
‘I know Sherlock isn’t here, John. That’s why I’m here. I caught the whole thing on video. We’ve had your apartment under grade three surveillance for over three months now.’  
John is too shocked to say anything apart from, ‘We?’  
‘Yes, we.’ Mycroft does not elucidate on that anymore and merely pulls out a slim DVD case from his jacket and waves it in the air. ‘Does your laptop play DVDs?’ he asks abruptly. John nods and Mycroft strides across the room and sits down on the chair in front of the laptop.  
As he fiddles with the lid, and guesses John’s password in two attempts, John notices that Mycroft is evidently under some enormous amount of strain. His face is flushed and angry, his eyes are narrowed and his left hand is continuously squeezing into a fist. John takes a hesitant step forward.  
‘Mycroft? What... what’s happened to Sherlock?’  
Mycroft looks up at him and John sees the desperate agony and worry in his eyes, before it is swiftly masked by a look of fragile composure. Instead of audibly replying, he merely waves John over and slots the DVD into the reader of the laptop. Sighing John walks over and leans over Mycroft’s shoulder, peering intently at the screen.  
A divided screen comes up. The left side is displaying a picture of the front door of 221 Baker Street, with a timecode on the bottom right hand side. From the timecode, John can tell that it was being filmed while he was at the supermarket earlier in the day. The other half of the screen is their living room clearly captured through the window or something. There is no sound, but the timecode is the same as the video of the exterior of the apartment. The apartment is empty in the video. John is too anxious to see the contents of the video to bother with berating Mycroft about the blatant invasion of privacy.  
‘What am I looking at?’ he asks. Mycroft holds up a hand as if to signal him to wait, and hits the play button. After a few seconds John sees a dark car pull up at the pavement and a figure gets out. John draws in a shuddering breath. Someone who he had hoped never to see, ever again is now walking up to the front door or 221 Baker Street. Mycroft observes John’s reaction but doesn’t say anything.   
Moriarty clearly fiddles with the lock on the door, although it is partly obscured by the angle of the camera, and then he is inside.  
John switches his attention to the other half of the screen, where he can see Moriarty walking up the stairs and into the apartment almost to where he and Mycroft are sitting now. Astonished, John watches Moriarty sit down in the chair and open his laptop, neatly guessing the password in one. You really need to change that.  
John watches Moriarty take a disc out from his jacket pocket and slip it into the laptop. Something begins running on the screen, it looks like a video but it’s hard to tell at the distance the camera is at.   
‘What’s he doing?’ John mutters to himself. Mycroft doesn’t reply. They watch in silence for a few minutes as Moriarty wanders around the living room. John feels vaguely ill watching him. How easily he managed to break into their home and invade their privacy. Suddenly he sees something happen on the video of the outside of the house.  
Sherlock is striding up the street, dark curls blowing around his face in the autumn wind, scarf wound around his neck, a frown clearly visible on his face. He is obviously in a bad mood. As he reaches the door and slides his key in, John sees Moriarty dart quickly into the kitchen.   
Sherlock pauses in the doorway to unwrap his scarf and toss it in the direction of the coat hooks. By some miracle it catches and stays there. He watches Sherlock hesitate with his coat buttons and finger something in his pocket before the detective clearly makes a decision and leaps up the stairs to the apartment with his coat still on.  
He freezes as he reaches the door to the living room, clearly sensing that something is not right. John feels like screaming at the video. Get out, you idiot! Get out! Knowing that Moriarty is only feet away from Sherlock is almost more than he can bear.  
Sherlock clearly identifies what is wrong in the room and strides over to the laptop, sitting down in the chair to peer at what is playing on the screen. John sees him mouth some words and drum his fingers on the table.  
The next few minutes play out with a deathly inevitability. Moriarty leaping out from behind the kitchen partition... a mute conversation in which Sherlock manages to grab John’s gun... Sherlock walking over and watching whatever is on the screen of the laptop with a dawning expression of fear on his face... another mute conversation and Moriarty shutting the laptop down while Sherlock fiddles with something in his pocket... Sherlock and Moriarty leaving the apartment, Sherlock wiping his hand against the woodwork of the door as he goes... Sherlock climbing into the dark car waiting at the pavement, followed by Moriarty... the car pulling out into the road and disappearing around the corner of Baker Street... gone.  
John sits as if turned to stone. Mycroft reaches out and flips the laptop shut. John’s mind desperately tries to process what is has just witnessed. Not for the first time he wishes that he had a brain which works as fast as Sherlock’s. The image that sticks in his mind is that horrible expression of utter terror on Sherlock’s face as he watches the video. John has never seen Sherlock like that... apart from when he realized that John was strapped to a significant amount of semtex which would blow him sky-high at Moriarty’s whim.  
Sherlock’s gone. Sherlock’s been kidnapped... by Moriarty. Oh God, what is he doing to him? What does he want?  
‘Do you know who that man is?’ Mycroft’s voice interrupts John’s agonized musing. John turns to him slowly.  
‘It’s... he’s... the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. His name is James Moriarty.’  
‘James Moriarty.’ Mycroft mouths the words but without any sort of recognition in his tone. ‘What does he want with my brother?’  
‘I... I don’t know. He’s like, Sherlock described himself as a ‘consulting criminal’.’ Mycroft’s brows furrow together and when he next speaks his voice is sharp.  
‘You mean, you’ve met him? You and Sherlock have met him?’  
Wearily John spends the next few minutes swiftly recounting the game that Sherlock and Moriarty play and the showdown at the pool. Mycroft frowns.  
‘There is something I don’t understand though, Mycroft. Well, a couple of things. Why would Sherlock go with him? What did he show him on the computer? And also... if you’ve got us under this “grade three surveillance” – why the hell didn’t you step in earlier? You could have prevented this!’ John can’t help the way his voice roughens with anger and accusation.   
Mycroft sinks his head into his hands and rubs his temples. ‘I... it’s something I will never forgive myself for if something happens to Sherlock, John. There was a mistake in my team... the offending member has been summarily fired. He wasn’t watching properly, all he saw was Moriarty and Sherlock talking in the living room. It was only when I got back and he told me about it that I watched the entire thing.’ Mycroft lifts his head to look at John and his eyes are cold and hard. ‘I fired him immediately. But I blame myself more. If I’d been more, more vigilant – I could have prevented it.’ There is a silence. John has no idea what to say. His mind is racing. Suddenly Mycroft speaks again. ‘As to your first question, I think I know the answer to that. You must have been in danger somehow. Where were you when this took place?’  
John blinks. ‘I was... I was at the supermarket. I wasn’t in danger, I was just doing the food shop. Why on earth would you think I was in danger?’  
Mycroft folds his arms across his chest in a mannerism that forcibly reminds John of his younger brother. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re one of the only people Sherlock genuinely, truly cares about. You said yourself how he reacted when he found you strapped to that bomb. The only thing which could have made my brother act the way he did was if you were in danger somehow. You may not have been aware of it but... you said he sounded odd on the phone? Strained?’  
‘Yes, it was like it wasn’t him talking.’  
‘Well, I’ll bet you anything Moriarty was threatening him with your death if he didn’t comply with his request, or something similar. It’s the only logical explanation of the facts at hand.’ John thinks again of the fear in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d seen John at the pool, the desperate way in which he had stripped the bomb off him.  
Alright? Are you alright?  
Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I’m fine... Sherlock... Sherlock!  
John rubs at his temple. ‘If Sherlock’s in trouble just because of me... you don’t know what Moriarty’s capable of, Mycroft. He could do anything. You have to do everything in your power, you have to...’  
Mycroft steps forward and places a hand on John’s now shaking shoulder. ‘Sherlock is my little brother, John. I am as worried about him as you are. Rest assured, I’ll do everything I can to get him back safely. Now, have you informed the police?’  
‘Yes, yes... Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard just left. But I’m not sure they can do much, they don’t have anything to go on...’  
‘Well, I have this video. We can show it to them tomorrow and I already have a team of people working on tracking down that car. We have its registration plates after all, and I flatter myself that I can handle things maybe a little quicker and more effectively than the police. I have my own methods.’ John registers the hard look in Mycroft’s eyes and decides not to ask what these methods might be. ‘I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you, and we can talk to the police tomorrow.’ Mycroft steps away and starts towards the stairs before turning back around. ‘Try and get some sleep, John. We will have to be alert and awake tomorrow if we want to help Sherlock.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Next morning John comes downstairs to find Mycroft already up and making tea. Sherlock’s older brother is immaculately dressed as usual and John feels shabby standing there unshaven in his oldest jumper and pair of jeans.  
‘Have you heard anything?’ John asks immediately as he walks into the kitchen and claims the mug of tea made for him on the side.   
‘My team are still following the trail of the car. I’m sure it will yield results soon.’  
Just at that minute there is a rattle at the letterbox, followed by a soft thud as if something has just fallen lightly onto the mat. John glances at Mycroft and then strides down the stairs towards the door.  
A DVD case is lying on the mat. It is quite blank apart from the words:  
FAO DOCTOR JOHN WATSON. URGENT.  
Blinking he picks it up and returns to the living room. ‘This just got posted through the front door.’  
Mycroft wastes no time. Immediately, in movements very similar to his brother’s, he leaps out of the door and flies down to the front entrance. John watches him from the window run out onto the pavement and glance left to right. There is nobody there, the streets are deserted. Slowly Mycroft walks back in and back to the living room.  
‘Never mind. I had hoped... play this in your laptop will you, John? I’d say wear gloves, but you’ve already picked it up.’  
John can’t help feeling that this is a subtle putdown. Sighing he opens his laptop and logs in. Once the screen flickers into life he opens the tray and slots in the DVD. Mycroft joins him and together they watch a video open up.   
John takes a breath. It is Moriarty who is standing right in front of the camera, his face so close it fills every available space.  
‘Dear John Watson. I suspect you may not be alone when you watch this, so to whoever else is there, hello! My name is Jim Moriarty... but I imagine you probably already know that.’ John winces, the high pitched tone grates on his nerves. As much as the man annoys him, however, he can’t suppress a shudder at the sight of those eyes. Dead. Cold. Next to him he can sense Mycroft scrutinizing the video intently.  
At least Mycroft shares his brother’s intelligence. He’ll probably be able to make more of whatever clue is coming than I will.  
‘I just want to say... welcome to my endgame. Here’s how we’re going to play. I believe I have someone very important to you...’ Here Moriarty steps away from the camera, revealing a completely white room. A table is directly in front of the viewfinder. Sherlock is sat at the table, a wound which is leaking blood on his temple. His left hand is pinioned by leather rings on the surface. He looks tired but still alert. As Moriarty moves his eyes follow his captor, narrowed in thought.   
‘The game is this. John Watson... you have a week to find Sherlock. You may enlist the help of anyone you wish to involve. I have serious doubts they’ll be able to help much, but it seems only fair to give you some sort of chance. We’re going to see how much you’ve learned from Sherlock. Let me assure you, his life depends on it.’  
John’s breath stutters in his throat as Sherlock’s steady gaze returns to the camera. He doesn’t look particularly frightened although John can see his tension in the way he is rigidly holding himself upright.  
‘To show you how serious I am, I thought I’d send you a little demonstration. As the time goes by, these demonstrations will become more... violent... in character.’ Moriarty beckons to someone off camera and a hulking man enters from the left. As John sees what he is carrying in his hand, his nagging suspicion turns into a horrible certainty and his hands curl into fists. If they dare...  
Moriarty, still beaming onscreen, claps his hands together. ‘So! No time to waste! On with the game. Sherlock... I hope you’re ready for this.’  
Sherlock’s jaw tightens and he shuts his eyes. The man steps forward and swings the hammer in a vicious downward arc. The full force of the blow lands on Sherlock’s left little finger and there is a hideous cracking sound. Sherlock draws in a stuttering breath but doesn’t cry out.   
‘And again!’  
Swoosh! Crack! Sherlock’s eyes fly open as the second blow connects and he bites his lip so hard John can see a bead of blood forming. Sherlock’s little and second finger of his left hand lie on the table, clearly broken and skewed at an odd angle.  
His violin, John thinks numbly. How is he going to play his violin again? He feels angry tears spring to his eyes and he dashes them away furiously. Clenching his jaw he forces himself to carry on watching the video. Moriarty’s smug face is almost more than he can stand, and as for Sherlock... he can’t bring himself to look at those broken fingers or the pain which is evident on the detective’s face.   
‘I’ll be looking forward to seeing you, John. And I know Sherlock hopes you’re going to turn up... very soon. It won’t be much fun for him otherwise, you see. Bye!’ The screen goes dark.  
I’m going to find Moriarty. I’m going to find him and when I do I’m going to kill him. Very slowly. I’m going to make it hurt. I’m going to make him suffer, the way he is making Sherlock suffer. He will pay for hurting him.


	6. The Trail Goes Cold

Chapter Six

The Trail Goes Cold

Moriarty switches off the camera and turns to face Sherlock. The detective’s face has turned even paler than its usual shade, he is breathing hard and there are beads of sweat at his temples. Moriarty rolls his eyes.  
‘Oh, come on now, Sherlock! It’s just a couple of broken fingers – I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’  
Sherlock raises his head and glares at Moriarty but makes no reply. Instead he puts his mind to work in trying to remember anything useful he saw while he was being dragged from his underground prison into this room. The journey had been quick, it wasn’t that far from the cellar to here. The steps from the cellar had opened out into a hallway, clearly on the bottom floor of what looked to be a large house, judging by the magnificent front door he had glimpsed at the end of the corridor. A huge staircase had swept upstairs to his right, further enforcing the idea that the place he was being held captive was big and grand. There had been a window open somewhere, Sherlock had felt a slight breeze on his face, and had smelt fresh autumnal air. He had strained his ears for sounds of traffic but there had been none. Therefore they were probably quite a distance from any sort of major road, given the way the noise of traffic carries.  
The room he is currently in is just off to the left of the hallway and has clearly been remodelled so as not to give away any hint of their location. Sherlock can see mouldings on the wall to his left where there are obviously high windows which are now covered over with white plasterboard.   
He winces as the hulking guard removes his fingers from the leather restraints none too gently and hauls him to his feet.  
‘I can walk for myself, thanks,’ he snaps out, the agony in his throbbing fingers making him even more short-tempered than usual. The guard glances at Moriarty as if for instructions as to what he should do. Moriarty is beaming at Sherlock’s statement.  
‘Go ahead Davies, let him walk... while he can. But don’t you try anything Sherlock! I’m watching you!’  
Sherlock throws a withering glare over at the criminal. ‘Just what exactly do you expect me to do, Moriarty? I’ve no doubt you have several of these thugs stationed all around and in the house. I flatter myself that I’m clever enough not to attempt escaping when the odds are so clearly against me.’  
‘You’ve got a sharp tongue on you, haven’t you Sherlock darling? I might need to... subdue you a little more before our next little present to John Watson.’  
Sherlock feels a slight tendril of fear creep into his stomach but he keeps the emotion out of his face as he calmly replies to Moriarty’s threat. ‘Go ahead. I don’t think much of your methods so far. Broken fingers... it’s a common form of torture.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘One might even go so far as to say boring. I thought you were more innovative than this, Jim.’  
The criminal brings his fist down on the table in a sudden fit of temper. ‘Get him out of my sight! You’re going to pay for aggravating me, Sherlock!’  
On second thoughts, perhaps that wasn’t the smartest thing to say. It wouldn’t be the first occasion his mouth had got him into trouble, but he suspected this time he may be getting more than a sharp dressing down from Lestrade or Mycroft.  
The guard drags him back down the corridor none too gently and fastens him back into his chains in his underground cell. His fingers are really starting to hurt now and he avoids looking at them as they hang from his hand at an odd angle.   
He is left alone for perhaps half an hour, during which time he amuses himself by doing maths puzzles in his head and counting the stones on the wall opposite. Two hundred and four. Suddenly the door at the top of the steps is flung open again and Moriarty comes sauntering down, all traces of his previous bad temper gone. He smiles benignly at Sherlock and carefully unchains his wrists. Sherlock rubs at the slightly reddened skin with his good hand, all the while eyeing Moriarty and wondering what he has in store next.  
‘Take off your coat,’ Moriarty says, in a calm and emotionless tone of voice. Sherlock frowns but can’t see any point in deliberately disobeying. Slowly he takes off the heavy woollen coat, being careful not to catch the sleeves on his injured fingers too much. When he is done he hands it to Moriarty who throws it into a corner of the room. ‘And your jacket.’ Sherlock removes his dark jacket and it follows his coat into the corner.  
Moriarty moves forward a little and traces the collar of Sherlock’s deep purple shirt where it meets the long column of his neck. The detective flinches away from the touch again. Moriarty’s hand feels like he is being carressed by a lizard, or a snake. I don’t like to be touched. Moriarty chuckles.  
‘Dear, dear... still so prudish. We’re going to have to work on that, aren’t we? I look forward to it immensely. Still, in the meantime... off with the shirt.’  
Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares at Moriarty. ‘No.’  
Quick as a flash Moriarty stretches out a hand, grabs one of Sherlock’s broken fingers and twists. Taken by surprise, Sherlock can’t stop the yelp of agony and his knees buckle slightly. The pain is hot and stinging, coursing through his veins like acid. Moriarty releases the digit and slowly the pain fades away to a dull ache.   
‘Take. Off. Your. Shirt.’ Moriarty’s tone hasn’t changed, he is still smiling that odd, blank smile.   
Sherlock obeys, fumbling with the buttons slightly. Moriarty slips it off his shoulders with a strange look in his eyes. A look that is hungry and predatory. Sherlock shudders, partly due to the cold which is now making its way through his skin and partly from nerves. Moriarty is starting to make him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Casually Moriarty throws the shirt into the corner as well and then steps back, eyeing Sherlock analytically. Sherlock wraps his arms around his stomach and attemps to meet Moriarty’s stare.  
‘Yes, that will do nicely.’ Moriarty steps forward and chains Sherlock back in his restraints. ‘I told you I was going to have to subdue you, Sherlock, and it pains me to do this, really it does.’ He waves a hand and one of his grunts descends the steps, carrying a large bucket carefully in his hands. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Hunter.’ Sherlock barely has time to blink before the man called Hunter steps forward. The ice water courses down on Sherlock in a thundering mass. There are still many ice-cubes in it and several of them knock against his injured hand. If he had any breath to cry out he would have done, but the icy water has stolen all the breath in his body. He can only sit there, gasping, as the cold pierces his exposed skin like thousands of tiny needle pricks.   
Moriarty stands back, his fingers rubbing his chin in thoughtful contemplation. ‘Yes... the wet, dishevelled look suits you, Sherlock. I rather thought it might, and you know how much I love being right.’ Sherlock cannot respond even if he had wanted to, his entire body is now occupied in trying to deal with the sudden assault. He has already started shivering violently. Moriarty kneels down before him and brushes a lock of sodden black hair away from Sherlock’s eyes.   
‘We will continue this treatment through the night. Every two hours. I think you’ll find it difficult to get to sleep, unfortunately. This room is cold, there will be no way for you to warm up. I think by tomorrow you might be in a more, pliable, mood.’  
Sherlock draws in a harsh breath. ‘And to think I once credited you with some imagination. Even Anderson has more imagination than you do.’  
Moriarty’s eyes flash with temper and he spins towards the steps. Halfway up he calls back down to Sherlock.  
‘We’ll see if you’re in a more co-operative mood tomorrow. Have a good night.’  
Sherlock watches him leave. Only when the door swings shut does he feel able to release the tears which have been building in his eyes. His whole body shakes as his muscles attempt to desperately fight the numbing cold.   
Suddenly a thought occurs to him. I’m the bait. He wants to get rid of John as well. He is going to lure John here and then kill him in front of me. He knows that is what will crush me. Having John die trying to save me. Dear John.   
Sherlock shakes his head fiercely, icy water droplets flying from his hair. He will do anything, anything to prevent John from being harmed. The best he can do is stay strong, alert and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Somehow he has to warn John. The doctor has risked life and limb for Sherlock too many times. Despite the chill pervading his slender frame, the detective cudgels his agile mind to work, forcing it to think of solutions and ideas, no matter how unlikely they may be to realise. 

Two Hours Later

‘Time for your bath,’ Hunter grunts as he steps down the cellar stairs with another bucket presumably filled with ice cold water. Sherlock groans. He has hardly dried at all from the last assault, due to the cold air in the cellar. He is exhausted both physically and mentally from trying to think of a solution to save John from Moriarty.   
Hunter throws the water over him. Sherlock had thought he had prepared for it, but nothing could prepare for the feeling. Again the detective is left gasping and frozen. Hunter smiles sadistically and leaves the room. 

Two Hours Later

Sherlock watches the door open, watches Hunter descend the steps yet again. Unable to help himself he shakes his head repeatedly, unable to voice his plea. Hunter remains unaffected. For the third time the cascading cold drenches Sherlock.   
His skin by this time is turning blue and his breath is coming in painful gasps. He has given up on the idea of trying to think of something to save John... he has given up on any kind of thought, a complete novelty for him. All he can think of now is the cold. It permeates every aspect of his being, numbing his mind.  
He gazes longingly at his coat in the corner of the room. His lovely woollen warm coat. Something suddenly clicks in his frozen brain. Coat. Pin. Coat. Pin. Handcuffs. Pin.  
‘Hey!’ He calls out to Hunter, his voice hoarse and as weak as he can make it, which isn’t hard. Hunter turns to look at him, surprised. ‘H-hey! D’you think I c-could possibly have my coat? Just for a minute? Please?’ It almost destroys his pride to have to beg, but as he is pretending to be more vulnerable than he actually is, it’s okay. For this to work he has to seem completely pathetic.  
Hunter shifts on the steps, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock gazes at him, trying to suppress the urge to laugh. This is what someone who isn’t used to using his brain looks like when he attempts to think.   
‘Er... that’s...’ he pauses for a second and then his voice roughens. ‘That’s not allowed. That’s not Master Moriarty’s orders.’  
Master Moriarty. Dear God, what is this? The eighteen hundreds?  
Forcing himself to sound once more pathetic and weak, Sherlock forms his next words carefully. ‘O-oh. Okay. Erm... could you possibly tell your master that unless he w-wants me to die of p-pneumonia or major organ failure, which wouldn’t be much fun, I might add... that I n-need my coat?’ Sherlock cannot help himself putting sarcastic emphasis on the master part of the sentence. Luckily for him the man doesn’t seem to recognize sarcasm, or if he does, he doesn’t respond to it.  
‘I’ll ask him. But I doubt he’ll say yes.’  
‘It’s appreciated. Thank you.’  
Hunter looks puzzled, as if he doesn’t receive thanks very often, nods his head briefly and then leaves. Sherlock waits, shivering, for about five minutes. If Moriarty does not comply to his request then he might as well give up any attempt at escape right now. After a few minutes, however, the door flies open again and Moriarty himself appears, looking slightly tired and somehow more human in a thick dressing gown.  
He winces when he sees Sherlock huddled in the corner. As he walks down the steps he rubs his hands together exaggeratedly. ‘Goodness it’s cold in here isn’t it? I see my treatment has started to take effect. Perhaps you feel a little more civil now, hmm?’  
Sherlock doesn’t need to fake his teeth chattering as he speaks. ‘Oh, d-definitely. I’d really like my coat... please... just for a few m-minutes. You know it won’t be much fun for you if I catch pneumonia.’  
Moriarty walks slowly towards him. ‘Hmm, you’re right. That wouldn’t be much fun at all. Not when our little game has just started. And you don’t have much meat on your bones... do you?’  
He kneels in front of Sherlock and traces a hand down Sherlock’s pale, lightly muscled chest. The detective clenches his jaw and tries to look as though the touch isn’t bothering him.  
‘You know I’ve always thought you are beautiful... and having you here like this, completely at my mercy... I don’t think you’ve ever looked better.’ Moriarty’s hand trails lower down Sherlock’s torso, until he is toying with the waistband of Sherlock’s dark jeans.  
Sherlock’s composure snaps and he scrambles away from Moriarty, pressing himself against the damp wall of the cellar and breathing hard. Moriarty rocks back on his heels and rubs his fingers against his chin once more.  
‘Still so resistant. Oh well.’ He gets to his feet and picks up the coat from the corner. ‘Ten minutes, Sherlock. That’s all you’re getting. And in another two hours the treatment starts again, so enjoy it while you can.’  
I won’t need ten minutes. Ten seconds will do me just fine.  
Sherlock watches as Moriarty tosses the coat to him and then meanders back up the steps and out of the cellar. Breathing hard and fast, Sherlock fumbles in the pocket of the coat for the safety pin and carefully fastens it in the lining of his sodden jeans. There is no point in using it now. The whole house is probably awake and that thug Hunter will be in in another two hours to douse him in ice water again. Better to bide his time and wait until tomorrow night. Then, and only then, he might have a chance at getting out of this place. He shrugs his coat over himself and savours the warmth it provides while he can.

XXXXXXXXXX

‘You’re not seriously telling me that the car just vanished into mid-air, Mycroft! There’s got to be a record of it somewhere!’  
Mycroft taps his umbrella against the table irritably. ‘I’ve told you, John. My team have tracked it into the suburbs of London, and then it just disappears. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. We will of course start pursuing other leads immediately, however...’  
John slams his hand on the table. ‘What other leads? What other leads have we got, Mycroft? All we know is that Moriarty took Sherlock in a car which has now, apparently, disappeared like smoke!’  
‘I’m sure other clues will present themselves in time,’ Mycroft says smoothly, still looking distinctly uncomfortable.  
‘We don’t have time, Mycroft. Sherlock doesn’t have time. We have a week. Sherlock was taken Saturday morning, it’s now Sunday evening and the trail has already gone cold.’  
Mycroft leans back in his chair and surveys John critically. ‘You’re upset. That’s understandable. I shall leave you for tonight but I will be back first thing in the morning and we will formulate a proper plan. I suggest you inform this Inspector Lestrade and get him over tomorrow as well.’  
John slumps into his chair and stares blankly at the wall opposite him... a wall still scarred and pitted with bullet holes. ‘I have work tomorrow.’ To his great surprise and mild annoyance, Mycroft chuckles from across the room.  
‘John. You’re not going to work tomorrow. In fact I would take the week off. Personal reasons, illness... whatever you like. But I tell you this.’ Mycroft’s voice turns abruptly serious. ‘Sherlock needs you to be concentrated on this. I’ll do what I can but we have a much better chance if the both of us are fully focussed. Do you have a good relationship with your boss?’  
John almost bursts out laughing. He manages to control himself and replies to Mycroft’s question. ‘I’d say so. She’s my girlfriend.’ How is it that Mycroft knows so much about his and Sherlock’s life and yet doesn’t know that John has a girlfriend? Mycroft raises an eyebrow and gazes at John as though his answer wasn’t the one he was expecting.  
‘Your... girlfriend?’  
‘Yes. We’ve been together for awhile now. I thought you would have known this, Mycroft.’ The older man shrugs and stands up to leave.  
‘Of course I have noticed that a woman occasionally spends an evening or two here. But the scarcity of her visits made me reject the idea she was romantically involved with you...’ He trails off in a manner most unlike him and taps his umbrella a few times on the floor. ‘Yes, well. Goodnight, Doctor Watson. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Does nine o’clock suit?’  
John, still puzzled and trying to work out why he feels insulted, gets to his feet. ‘Of course. That’s fine. I’ll see you then. I’ll ring Lestrade tomorrow as well.’  
Mycroft nods and leaves the apartment. John wanders into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, frowning. What did Mycroft mean when he said Sarah hadn’t spent that much time here and that made him reject the idea they were romantically involved? He saw Sarah plenty of times, either here or at her place.  
Not quite true. Now he comes to think about it, actually, they have hardly seen each other over the past few months apart from in work. There is always something to be doing, some new case which Sherlock needs his help with.   
Sarah understands. She knows that Sherlock and the cases will always come first. This sudden, errant, thought stops him dead in his tracks, midway to the kitchen. He stands, almost frozen to the floor with shock.   
That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Sarah’s your girlfriend... she should come first. And almost as simultaneously another thought occurs to him in response. But she doesn’t. I will always put Sherlock above her. So what does that mean?  
Oh no. He can’t deal with this now. Not on top of everything else. Slowly, although it is the last thing he wants to do with this new-found revelation, he takes his phone out of his pocket and dials Sarah’s number. She picks up after the fourth ring.  
‘Hello, stranger. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me!’  
John forces a laugh. ‘No, no. But I do have to ask you a large favour...’ He can hear her sigh at the other end of the line.  
‘Is this to do with Sherlock again?’ Her bitter tone aggravates him slightly. He has to remind himself that she doesn’t know the situation.  
‘In a way,’ he says tightly. ‘I need to have the next week off, if that’s alright.’  
‘The next week? John... we’re short-staffed as it is... what on earth’s the matter? Why do you need a week’s holiday?’  
‘Sherlock’s been kidnapped by a psychopath,’ he says bluntly. ‘I’m working with his brother Mycroft to try and find him but we’ve only been given a week and he was taken yesterday morning.’  
There is a long, long silence from Sarah’s end. Finally she speaks. ‘Jesus... John, you’re kidding right? This is a joke?’  
He sighs heavily feeling tears rising and tries desperately to force them back. ‘No, it’s not a joke.’  
‘Jesus,’ she repeats again and falls silent. ‘Have you informed the police?’  
John laughs a little wearily. ‘The police are idiots. They told me to fill in a missing person’s report.’  
‘That’s weird, John. You sounded just like him then.’  
‘Just like who?’  
‘Sherlock. The way you said, “the police are idiots”. It sounded, I don’t know, different. Not like you.’ She attempts a half-laugh. ‘Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with him, you’re starting to talk like him now.’  
Suddenly feeling stung, John snaps at her. ‘Why is it a problem if I sound like him? And the police are idiots... so far me and Mycroft have done a hell of a lot more than they’ve managed to do.’  
‘Okay, okay. I didn’t mean anything by it, there’s no need to bite my head off.’ John pauses and sighs.  
‘You’re right, I’m sorry Sarah. I’m just under a lot of strain at the moment, you know?’  
‘I understand. Take the week off, John. And I hope you find him. But when you’re next available I think we need to have a talk.’  
We need to have a talk. Never words you want to hear from your other half when you’re in a relationship. John is under no illusions as to what she wants to talk about. And the horrible thing is he knows that she would be in the right. He has made a lousy boyfriend so far.  
‘Okay,’ he replies tiredly. ‘Speak later. Goodnight.’  
‘Goodnight John.’ He disconnects the call and stays standing where he is for a moment or two, lost in thought. If someone had told him just after he’d first met Sherlock that in a few months time he would be putting the detective above a functional adult relationship with an attractive girl he would have recommended them to his therapist. And yet here he is. And the apartment is so damned quiet!  
In a sudden fit of rage he strides over to the counter, seizes his favourite mug and hurls it into the opposite wall. It smashes in a cascade of china and falls to the floor. Filled with a sudden storm of temper he whirls about the kitchen and living room, smashing everything he can get his hands on. Experiments, china, glasses, ornaments, Sherlock’s violin... Wait.  
He freezes, his face red with exertion, surrounded by fragments of chaos. Sherlock’s prized is violin raised in his hand. Slowly he lowers his arm and stares at it. Sherlock’s violin.  
Abruptly he falls to his knees in the middle of the living room the violin cradled in his arms. The first tear trickles down his cheek and the floodgates open.  
‘John?’   
Mrs Hudson’s quavery voice sounds from the doorway. He glances up, his gaze still blurred with tears. His landlady surveys the devastation and her eyes fill with sympathy.  
‘Oh my goodness, what’s happened? From the sounds of it I thought Sherlock was having one of his temper tantrums.’  
Is it possible? Does Mrs Hudson really not know that Sherlock’s gone? Has nobody told her?  
‘Sherlock’s been taken, abducted,’ he intones dully. ‘A pyschopath called Moriarty. He’s kidnapped him.’  
Mrs Hudson’s hand flies to her mouth. Without saying a word she delicately crosses the space and with a slight groan sinks to her knees beside him.   
‘You poor thing,’ she murmurs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He winces slightly as she comes in contact with his scarred shoulder but leans into the embrace. ‘And poor Sherlock. But you’ll find him, John.’  
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbles against her shoulder. ‘I’m not Sherlock, Mrs Hudson. I’m not... I’m not clever enough.’  
Mrs Hudson scoffs and the sound is enough to startle John from his misery. ‘Don’t be ridiculous John. Not everyone can be a genius like Sherlock Holmes. But you have intelligence.’ She tilts his head so he can look her in the eyes. ‘And you have passion. Together, they make a fearsome combination. I don’t think Sherlock’s got anything to worry about with Doctor Watson on the case.’


	7. John Has An Idea

Chapter Seven

John Has An Idea

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night. By the time morning rolls around he is seriously worried that his body is failing. The shivers have been almost constant and his fingers and toes have all gone completely numb. In a way this is a blessing since at least it means he can no longer feel the throbbing agony in his broken fingers. He is sitting in a pool of still icy water and the cold is constant. Surely Moriarty can’t keep him like this for too much longer. If he dies this early on it will completely ruin the game.  
Sure enough when his door next opens and the early dawn light filters through from the hallway it is not one of Moriarty’s thugs entering but Moriarty himself and he is not carrying a bucket. Instead he is carrying a thermal blanket and what looks like a thermos, presumably full of a hot beverage.   
Dully Sherlock raises his eyes. He is finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything and this terrifies him. If he wasn’t in this situation he would simply stick on a few nicotine patches, abuse his violin a little and soon enough the solution would present itself. However if he wasn’t in this situation he would have no need of the nicotine patches to begin with.  
Moriarty reaches him and without speaking reaches out and places the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. Instinctively Sherlock fumbles to draw it together, his chains rattling, but his numb fingers are unable to grasp the material. Moriarty chuckles low in his throat and does it for him.  
‘There you go dear. Much better, hmm? Can’t have you all shivering and useless for our next little demonstration can we? And you know, I much prefer you fighting and feisty.’ Sherlock groans at the thought of another ‘demonstration’. He knows what this means. More pain... much more. ‘Now, now. Buck up. Here, I’ve bought you some tea.’ He places the thermos at Sherlock’s side and begins making his way back up to the hallway. ‘Better drink it down soon. We’ll be starting filming in about an hour.’  
An hour? Is that all he is getting? His body will barely have time to warm up enough in that time. Still, he can already feel the blanket making a difference. It seems like his heart isn’t having to work quite as hard to pump blood to his major organs. He fingers the safety pin in his jeans. He will have to escape tonight. He doesn’t know if he can stand much longer in this dank cell. Previously he would have thought that isolation wouldn’t bother him. After all, before John Watson came along, he spent most of his life alone. People annoyed him, got in his way and bombarded him constantly with their stupidity. John had changed that. John had changed him.   
Carefully he manages to unscrew the lid of the thermos and sips at the scalding tea. It has a direct effect in warming him up as the liquid courses down his throat. And although he knows that he won’t be in any way in a prime condition to face whatever torture Moriarty has planned next, he knows that now he might be able to deal with it a little better. 

XXXXXXXXX

By the quality of the light he guesses that it might be mid-morning when Hunter and Davies arrive to drag him from his cell once again. He is still wearing his blanket but has not been given his shirt or jacket back. Silently the two thugs tow him down the corridor despite his irate snipes that he is perfectly capable of walking by himself, thank you.  
The room to the left of the hallway, a place which Sherlock has started almost ironically thinking of as the torture chamber, has been remodelled yet again from yesterday. Sherlock had idly wondered what the hammering sounds were last night, but was too frozen and numb from his immersions in water to really pay much attention. Now he understands. The table has been cleared away. The video camera remains in its previous position but it now faces an ominous contraption which is suspended from the ceiling. It looks like a leather seat hanging from four chains. Sherlock’s liquid-silver gaze travels from the ceiling, takes in the apparatus, and continues to the floor where there are four silver iron rings. Chains are attached to them and at the other end of the chains there are leather bracelets, clearly meant for restricting ankles and wrists. Sherlock’s brows knit together. So... he is obviously going to be sitting in the leather seat, suspended above the floor. From the looks of it his wrists and ankles are going to be restrained by the leather attached to the chains on the floor.  
Hunter and Davies confirm his theory by suddenly bodily lifting him and dumping him into the device. As they do so the blanket falls from around his shoulders and lands in a heap on the floor. Hunter busies himself in chaining Sherlock’s wrists while the Davies does the same with his ankles. Then Hunter leaves the room and Moriarty wanders in.  
‘How do you like my new toy, Sherlock? My men worked for hours to get it ready for our little video today.’ Sherlock raises his eyebrows but feels no need to respond to Moriarty and so remains silent. Moriarty’s dark brown eyes flash with temper. ‘Oh come on! Even you have to admit this is going to be fun!’  
‘As the pyschopath in the room, I’ll say it’ll be fun for you. I very much doubt if I will consider it amusing.’  
‘Well, we must both respect the others’ differences. I, after all, cater for your need to be proved cleverer than everyone else by constantly providing you with challenges. It’s only fair that I have my fun too.’ He pouts almost petulantly. Sherlock rolls his eyes.  
‘Keeping me here against my will, chained day and night with no possibility of escape isn’t really testing my intellect against yours, is it Moriarty?’ His tone suddenly becomes low and intense. ‘Give me my freedom and we’ll see who the smarter man is. You’re not proving anything with these barbaric displays. Come on. Holmes versus Moriarty in a battle of wits.’ For a moment Moriarty almost looks as though he is considering it. His gaze narrows and he stares for a second at Sherlock. Then he throws his head back and laughs gaily.  
‘Well, I would... but I’m not going to. I’ve waited for a long time to have you like this... my favourite toy of all... completely at my mercy. I don’t need to prove myself against you. I’ve already won. I got you into this situation by exploiting your fatal weakness.’  
‘And what would that be?’ Sherlock growls.  
‘Your emotions. Your ability to feel. Your concern for John Watson’s safety.’ Moriarty abruptly loses interest in talking and starts fiddling with the camera. ‘Well, I think we’ve wasted enough time with idle chatter. Hunter!’  
The man enters from the door just behind Sherlock. The detective has to resist the temptation to look around. He knows he won’t like what he’ll see and above all he has to keep his composure. No matter what is coming next.  
Davies moves around to operate the camera and Moriarty stands in front of the lens. The light flicks to red, indicating the recording has started.  
‘My dear Watson...’ 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It is strange how much better he feels after his brief explosion of temper. He can actually appreciate why Sherlock fires at the wall when he is bored. Now he can think clearly and logically and work to get Sherlock out of Moriarty’s grasp.   
Mrs Hudson leaves after he assures her that he is absolutely okay. Then he sits down, grabs a pad of paper and a pen and starts to think. What do they know so far? The car carrying Sherlock apparently disappeared somewhere near the outskirts of London, in the Lambeth area. Moriarty is obviously high-up in the criminal underworld. It makes sense that he would be able to make such a vital clue like the car vanish.  
But there must be other ways to find Sherlock. John relaxes back into the chair and taps the pen idly on the arm. He finds that it is easier to come up with solutions if he doesn’t try and force his brain to work. If he just sits here and lets his mind wander, soon he will come up with something. After a few minutes the idea occurs to him.  
The homeless network. Of course! Sherlock has used them time and time again on cases. They are very effective at providing information usually hidden from the police and helpful at providing insights into the shady and often lawless dealings of the city. Added to that is their great respect and liking for the detective. John has seen this often firsthand. They clap him on the back and fondly call him ‘Mister ‘Olmes’. The name never fails to earn a small smile from the detective when he hears it.   
John scribbles the words down on his pad. Homeless network. He circles it and then falls back to thinking. If he and Mycroft can get the word out to the homeless, especially around the area Sherlock was last seen, they might finally get on the right track. Although, on second thoughts, perhaps having Mycroft there wouldn’t be a good idea. It had taken them long enough to get used to seeing John around and Mycroft is definitely a far more intimidating figure than he is.  
John resolves to talk to the homeless tomorrow morning, as soon as he can. He will tell Mycroft where he is going and what he is doing but implore him to stay away. The older man won’t be happy about it but hopefully will understand that it is necessary in order to help Sherlock. Absently John picks up Sherlock’s violin which he keeps close to hand nowadays and plucks a few strings.   
Strange. In Sherlock’s absence he has started to do all the things the detective usually does. Throwing stuff around... playing the violin... very unlike him. He realizes that he is subconsciously trying to compensate for Sherlock’s absence and a dull ache starts up in his chest. He wants him back. He needs him back.

XXXXXXXXX

The next day he wakes after a surprisingly good night’s sleep. He had thought that his brain would be unable to switch off.   
At a little past eight o’clock he rings Lestrade at work. The Inspector doesn’t sound surprised to hear from John. He says that he is busy at the moment but he will drop by the apartment at around two o’clock. John says that will be fine.  
Mycroft arrives promptly at nine. John is proud that he has managed to look a little more presentable this time. He has showered and shaved and is wearing a decent pair of jeans and a jumper Sherlock bought him for his birthday. He had also bought him Jamie Oliver’s latest cookery book and had presented it to him with an almost anxious pride. John smiles when he thinks of the inscription written on the inside page.

To John Watson  
It has not escaped my attention that you gain a certain amount of pleasure from cooking (although the reasons why are sadly beyond even my great intellect). I suppose therefore, that if you are going to persist with this hobby you might as well do it properly and this Jamie Oliver is supposed to be one of the best. Happy Birthday.  
Your friend, Sherlock Holmes

The strange mixture of pomposity, formality and affection was so Sherlock. Right down to the core.  
‘Are you feeling okay this morning John? You seem a little distracted.’ John jumps slightly and turns to face Mycroft who is standing at the kitchen partition holding a cup of tea and regarding him critically. John flushes slightly.  
‘I’m fine. Just... thinking. Actually, there’s something I need to do this morning. I should be back in a couple of hours.’  
‘I’ll accompany you,’ Mycroft says immediately and not unexpectedly. John sighs and wonders about how best to phrase his next sentence. He does not want to risk offending Mycroft.  
‘Well, actually, I think it might be better if I went alone for this Mycroft. It’s sort of sensitive.’  
Sherlock’s brother studies him gravely for awhile, spinning his umbrella round while he does so. John can almost hear his keen mind whirring in the silence. John waits for him to speak.   
‘This delicate mission... it will help Sherlock somehow I presume?’  
John nods firmly. ‘I believe so, yes.’ Another silence but briefer than the last.  
‘Then I shan’t get in your way. My brother trusts you, Doctor Watson, and I suppose that is enough. But you’ll tell me everything when you return.’ It is a command, not a request. John pauses and then nods.  
‘Of course.’  
‘Off you go then. I shall wait here.’ He walks over to the sofa and sits down, looking pointedly at John. Feeling oddly as though he has just been dismissed from his own apartment John gathers together his wallet and keys and leaves... hailing a taxi from the pavement.

XXXXXXXXX

It doesn’t take John that long to arrive in Lambeth where the car was last seen. Traffic is inexplicably light, but he supposes that the morning rush to get to work has finished. He pays the cabbie and stands on the pavement, blowing into his hands as the chill wind circles around him and lifts his hair with creeping fingers.  
Slowly he starts to make his way towards the centre of Lambeth, not hurrying, knowing that he will encounter someone able to help him eventually.  
It takes him about fifteen minutes of walking to spot Davey, a regular informant of Sherlock’s. Casually he approaches him and stands silently nearby, adopting the detective’s usual form of communication. After a few seconds, out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Davey has noticed him.   
‘Alright? Don’t see you around these parts often.’ John turns to look at Davey properly. The man is perhaps around twenty-five to twenty-eight years old with a shaven head and tattoos covering his hands, the only part of him exposed to the weather. John knows, from conversations with Sherlock, that Davey is homeless and also a petty criminal. He is the perfect person to ask about kidnappings and dodgy dealings around the Lambeth area.  
‘I’m here to ask a favour,’ he mutters dropping a twenty into Davey’s palm. The younger man glances at it briefly and shoves it away in one of the pockets of his shabby long coat.  
‘So? Ask,’ he says bluntly, staring away from John.  
‘You know my friend? Sherlock Holmes?’ This gets Davey’s attention. He returns his gaze to John’s.  
‘Mister ‘Olmes? Sure I know ‘im. Got me out of a spot of bother awhile back. How is he? Ain’t he usually with you?’  
‘Yes. That’s what I need to speak to you about actually. He’s been kidnapped by a pyscho called James Moriarty.’ John is surprised at how calm and composed he sounds. Military training, probably. ‘He was last seen around here in a dark car. Just wondering if you’d seen anything.’  
Davey huffs and stamps his feet against the cold. ‘Well, you ain’t given me much to go on, mister. Any number of dark cars around ‘ere.’  
‘This one was expensive. A lexus. It would have been out of place. I can give you the registration if you want.’  
Davey nods curtly and holds his hand out. John removes a scrap of paper and a pen, scribbles the number onto it, and hands it over. It joins the twenty in the pocket of the coat.  
‘I’ll pass the word around. Chances are someone’s seen something.’  
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’  
For the first time an emotion of some kind flickers in Davey’s eyes. ‘I’ll definitely keep my eyes open. If someone’s dared to ‘urt Mister ‘Olmes I’ll give ‘em hell. When did this happen?’  
‘Saturday morning. And I’d be careful if I were you, Davey. James Moriarty’s not the sort of man you want to mess with. No disrespect to you.’ Davey looks as though he is about to say something and then thinks better of it. He makes to go and then calls back to John.  
‘You still in Baker Street, right?’  
‘Yes.’  
‘Someone’ll contact you if we hear anything, okay?’  
‘Of course. Thanks for your help, Davey.’ The other man waves his hand as if to bat the thanks away.   
‘Mister ‘Olmes is a decent man, for a pube.’  
John frowns. ‘For a what?’  
‘A pube. Public school bloke. You know. Posh. Usually they’re all snobs, ain’t they?’ John laughs and nods. Davey disappears around the corner and John calls a taxi to take him back to Baker Street. There isn’t anything more he can do here. If the network comes up with anything they’ll let him know. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time he arrives back at Baker Street it is nearing twelve o’clock. Mycroft is sitting on the sofa, tapping away at John’s laptop. John sighs and makes fresh tea.  
‘So?’ Mycroft asks as John takes the milk from the fridge.  
Briefly John recounts what he has been up to. Mycroft looks a little sceptical as if he is unsure how much help a homeless person can be, but doesn’t push the point, for which John is grateful.  
‘Lestrade should be here around two,’ John says, settling down with his mug after handing Mycroft his.  
‘Ahh, the famed Inspector,’ Mycroft murmurs, still busy on the laptop. ‘I must admit I am curious to finally meet the man who has put up with Sherlock for five years.’   
‘Lestrade’s a decent guy,’ John says, sipping at his tea. ‘He only calls Sherlock in when he’s out of his depth.’   
‘Which in Sherlock’s opinion is...’  
‘Always,’ John finishes. Mycroft chuckles and finally picks up his mug. There is a rattle at the letterbox and the sound of something dropping. Mycroft drops his mug onto the table, almost spilling the tea, and dashes to the window. John swiftly follows suit.   
They are just in time to see a hooded figure, walking swiftly, turn the corner of Baker Street and disappear from sight. Hesitantly John glances at Mycroft and then heads down the stairs to the front door. He returns with a DVD case in his hand, identical to the one dropped off yesterday. Mycroft frowns at it and rubs his temples with his fingertips.  
‘I suppose we’d better get it over with,’ he murmurs gruffly and slots the DVD into John’s laptop.  
The video begins, yet again, with a close-up of Moriarty’s face. John can feel his hands clenching already and forces himself to relax them.  
‘My dear Watson, it’s that time again. Due to the obvious lack of anyone attempting to rescue Sherlock I have to assume you are either even more stupid than I thought or else not really bothering to find out where he is. I must confess myself slightly disappointed. Still, no point dwelling on your evident ineptitude. On with the show.’ He smiles charmingly at the camera and moves to the side.  
John draws in a sharp breath as he sees Sherlock suspended from the ceiling, dressed in nothing but his jeans. He is shocked at the transformation in the detective. The last video had shown that Sherlock, although evidently a little tired, was still at least alert. This Sherlock looks like he is hardly able to keep his head upright. His pale skin is tinged slightly blue and his eyes are closed.  
John’s gaze moves to Sherlock’s left hand where he sees the two broken fingers dangling, obviously untreated. It makes him slightly uneasy that Sherlock is shirtless. He has never seen the detective without either his many layers of daywear or at least his silky blue dressing gown. It makes him seem somehow a lot more vulnerable, a lot more human. He is also fairly surprised to notice that Sherlock is a lot more muscled than he would have thought. Not hugely, of course, but his torso is far from the skinny specimen John would have expected. Probably all that gallivanting around London after criminals.  
Why are you thinking of something like that now? For God’s sake John. Concentrate. Gradually his attention moves from Sherlock to the ominous thug standing directly behind him.  
My God, what is he holding? Is that...? John swallows as his brain registers what the item in the thug’s grip is. Beside him Mycroft is as still as a statue, staring at the screen. John can hardly imagine what he is feeling. He doesn’t get along with Harry but if he were to see her in this sort of situation...  
‘Begin,’ Moriarty says coolly, folding his arms across his chest. The man behind Sherlock raises the whip and brings it down in a stinging blow. John forces himself to watch as it connects with Sherlock’s exposed back. He needs to remember the expression of agony which crosses the detective’s pale face. He needs to remember the smug look on Moriarty’s countenance. He needs to remember how, after the third blow connects, Sherlock finally screams aloud. He needs to remember seeing the droplets of Sherlock’s blood start to splatter the pristine white floor. He needs to watch so he can store away his fury, his devastation, his longing for vengeance. This is what he will use when he finally comes face to face with Moriarty. He will draw on all of this and he will use it to destroy Moriarty.  
The whipping seems to continue for hours, although it can only have been a couple of minutes in reality. By the time Moriarty raises a hand for Hunter to stop it looks as though Sherlock has collapsed into unconsciousness. He is lying in the contraption bonelessly, only the ankle restraints look to stop him toppling from the device. The floor all around him is stained red with his blood.   
Moriarty steps delicately around the spots of blood like a cat and moves so he is once again in front of the camera. His expression is not easy to read, it is curiously blank. There is a silence before he suddenly hisses:  
‘Try harder.’ The screen goes dark. John hears Mycroft get up from the sofa, but he himself remains frozen to the spot. Distantly he hears the older man mutter something about needing some air and then the footsteps as the older man leaves the apartment. After a couple of minutes John manages to relax slightly. He is aware of a slight pain in his palms and he gazes at his hands bemusedly. It takes a couple of seconds for him to register what has happened. He has clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails have dug into the soft flesh and made deep, half-moon imprints.  
Breathe, John. In and out. Remember your training. It takes a little while but gradually he begins to return to himself and sanity. After another few seconds nobody would have ever guessed that Doctor John Watson had just watched his flatmate, colleague and best friend being tortured and whipped. Apart from his eyes. If someone watched him closely they might see a flicker deep in the dark blue depths. A flicker of something cold and hard. And had that person been James Moriarty, they may perhaps have felt a responding flicker of unease.  
Mycroft returns to the living room and John absently notices that his eyes are slightly puffy and seem a little red. Carefully John withdraws the DVD from the laptop tray and places it back in its container. Getting to his feet he searches around until he finds the first video Moriarty sent and stacks them together on the coffee table. When Lestrade arrives he will give him these. Perhaps when he sees them he will want to do more to find Sherlock than get John to fill in a fucking missing person’s report.


	8. Putting A Plan Into Action

Chapter Eight

Putting A Plan Into Action

Once the camera is off Moriarty walks over to Sherlock and pauses for a moment, gazing down at him. Suddenly he grips Sherlock’s shoulder and pulls him upright. The detective’s head lolls to the side and with the hand not supporting Sherlock, Moriarty smooths the dark curls away from the sweaty forehead. Leaning forwards Moriarty places a sudden rough and bruising kiss on Sherlock’s lips.  
Hunter and Davies exchange glances. It is no secret that their boss has a preference for men and he especially likes them to look like Sherlock, tall and willowy with dark hair. Still, it makes them a little uncomfortable, especially because they are generally asked to deal with the ‘mess’ after Moriarty has finished with them.  
As if sensing their thoughts, Moriarty abruptly steps away from Sherlock, releasing him from his grasp. Sherlock falls backwards once more, once more it is only the ankle restraints which stop him toppling to the floor.   
‘Get him back to the cellar. And tell Doctor Groves he has to treat those lashes... I don’t want him dying from some infection before the week is up. I want him good as new for our next demonstration tomorrow. Got that?’ When it is just Moriarty and his men there is no need for the criminal to put on a show. His voice is low and dangerous. Hunter and Davies are under no illusions about what will happen if they fail James Moriarty even once.   
Moriarty stalks out of the room and Hunter and Davies let out the breath they weren’t even aware they were holding. Grimly Davies props Sherlock up against his body while Hunter busies himself with undoing the restraints.  
‘Jesus, how the hell does the boss think we’re going to get him well for tomorrow?’ Davies says, examining Sherlock’s back with disbelief. Hunter hadn’t held back on the lashes, knowing full well that if he did Moriarty would punish him for it. The detective’s back is criss-crossed with a myriad of long, deep gashes all still leaking blood which is dripping onto the floor. A droplet lands on Davies’s boot and he shifts away slightly with a grimace of distaste.  
‘I’ve got no idea,’ Hunter says gruffly, finishing with the ankle chains and moving onto Sherlock’s wrists. ‘Doctor Groves has got his work cut out. Plus there’s the fact that the guy hasn’t eaten for days and we spent all of last night chucking cold water over him. I’m surprised he hasn’t gone into shock already.’  
‘D’you wanna carry him or shall we do it together?’ Davies asks as Hunter finally unchains the last restraint.  
Hunter looks as the detective critically. ‘Dunno. I reckon I could manage, there’s hardly anything of him... hang on...’ Stepping forwards Hunter slings one arm under Sherlock’s shoulders and another under his knees. Once he has got the detective’s full weight he laughs. ‘I was right, it’s like carrying a feather. I reckon even a little weed like you could do it.’ Davies sneers at him in response but the amusement in his eyes makes it clear that this is an accepted in-joke between them.  
‘All-right Mr Muscle, you carry him and I’ll open the doors for you.’  
Davies opens the door into the corridor and Hunter follows, glancing down at his right arm which is under Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Ugh... I’m getting blood all over my shirt.’ Davies snorts in response as they process down the corridor, Sherlock’s head dangling limply over Hunter’s arm. When they reach the cellar door, Davies flings it open and steps back to allow Hunter to descend the steps before following him down.  
‘Jesus, it’s like a freezer in here,’ Davies mutters as the chill air surrounds them and he shivers. Hunter nods.  
‘Yeah, don’t envy the guy when he comes to.’   
Swiftly they chain Sherlock’s wrists again and step back. Davies shakes his head. ‘Poor bloke. I don’t fancy his chances much. If this John Watson hasn’t turned up by now, I doubt he will at all.’  
Hunter frowns. ‘Might be that boss has got it wrong. Watson probably doesn’t even care enough to bother finding him.’  
‘Whatever. I just hope the boss doesn’t want us to do that thing we did to the last bloke tomorrow. Remember... with the nails and the string? ‘Cos that was fucking disgusting.’ Hunter shudders at the thought. Even as Moriarty’s hired ‘muscle’ he doesn’t have the same taste and enjoyment for violence that his boss does.  
He has no problem with carrying it out because that’s his job, and a well-paid job at that, but he keeps himself distanced from it. And surely it is better to be with James Moriarty than against him. Davies glances at Sherlock’s flickering eyelids.  
‘I reckon he’s gonna come to in a bit. I’ll go get Doctor Groves.’ He gives a wry chuckle. ‘Man, he ain’t gonna be happy when he hears he’s gotta get this dude well and ship-shape for tomorrow.’  
Hunter sniggers in response. ‘Mission fucking impossible I’d say.’  
Together they leave the cellar and the door closes behind them.

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘If this John Watson hasn’t turned up by now, I doubt he will at all.’  
‘Watson probably doesn’t even care...’  
Sherlock hears the words echo and dance in his mind. The blackness is thinning, he has a sense of where he is, of what is happening. The voices belong to the two thugs whose job it appears to be to guard him and carry out Moriarty’s sadistic ‘demonstrations’. He feels the cold metal around his wrists, notices the chill once more leaching into his body. He is back in the cellar then.  
With a groan he forces his eyes open. The cellar is empty but with a great effort Sherlock recalls the guard’s words. A doctor will be coming in soon to treat his injuries. His injuries. This brings his attention forcefully yet unwillingly to his back. As soon as he has started to think about it, he is aware of the stinging pain. Sherlock wishes to return to unconsciousness but suddenly a fit of coughing seizes him, racking his body and making his throat burn. It seems that his night spent being doused in freezing water is finally having an effect.  
‘Just perfect,’ he mutters to himself hoarsely. How is he supposed to escape tonight in this sort of condition? He’d probably get no further than the top of the cellar stairs before collapsing.  
The cellar door opening interrupts his thoughts. A small man stands at the top, clutching a tattered doctor’s bag. As he walks down the steps and into dingy light provided by the cellar’s only flickering lightbulb Sherlock sees that his features are pointed and weak, giving him the look of some sort of rat-like creature. The man stands in front of him and carefully places the bag down on the floor. This is the doctor then. Sherlock tries to recall the name, he is sure he heard the guards say it. It takes a few seconds of searching before it comes to him. Groves. That was it. But this panics him a little. He should have been able to make that connection in a split second. It increases his worry that this enforced isolation and torture is gradually ruining his mind beyond repair.  
‘You must be Doctor Groves,’ he rasps, holding out the hand without the broken fingers. ‘Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure.’ The man ignores his hand and merely walks around to Sherlock’s left side and examines the wounds on Sherlock’s back, prodding one of them with a pointed finger which makes Sherlock hiss in pain.  
‘Fairly deep. Multiple lashes. Probably won’t need stitches though... you’re lucky.’ He smiles at Sherlock without a trace of warmth. Sherlock laughs disbelievingly but stops once he finds that the action makes his chest ache.  
‘Lucky?’ he echoes.   
‘Yes,’ the doctor replies blankly. He carries on with his inspection, peering at the now starting to heal wound on Sherlock’s temple, prodding at the broken fingers and checking on Sherlock’s shallow breathing with a stethoscope.  
‘You know, your bedside manner has a lot to be desired,’ Sherlock mutters as the man begins to pour some sort of ointment onto the lashes on his back, making them sting sharply and causing his eyes to tear up.  
‘I’m here to do a job, that’s all. It’s my head if you die before the boss wants you to.’  
‘Charming,’ Sherlock responds, closing his eyes. Much to his chagrin the doctor finds that a couple of the lashes are deep enough to warrant stitches and returns to his bag to fetch a needle and some fine thread. He hisses as the doctor starts to stitch, but by biting his lip he finds he can manage the pain.  
‘Tell me, how does a doctor who is presumably sworn to help and heal people end up working for a psychopath like James Moriarty?’ Sherlock asks as the doctor moves onto the second lash.  
‘Everyone needs to earn a living. The boss just happens to pay better than most,’ the man replies curtly.   
‘So you don’t have any moral issues with doing this sort of thing?’ Sherlock presses, almost genuinely interested despite himself. Doctor Groves gives a small sigh.  
‘I’m not the one hurting people, am I? I was not the one who gave you these injuries and now I am stitching you up. I consider that to be fulfilling my hippocratic oath.’   
Sherlock knows it is dangerous for his mental wellbeing but he cannot stop himself wishing that John is here, that it is John’s gentle hands treating his wounds rather than this cold and acerbic doctor.  
‘Why does he keep you around? I can’t imagine there are many victims he wants fixed up afterwards.’  
‘True. There generally aren’t. He likes the security of having a doctor on hand I suppose. In case anything goes wrong.’  
Doctor Groves finishes his stitching and starts to leave, after giving Sherlock a couple of flu and cold pills.  
‘Wait! What about my fingers?’ The doctor turns at the top of the steps and looks back down at Sherlock blankly.  
‘I was instructed to leave them untreated.’ He leaves. Sherlock slumps back, wincing as his back connects with the cold stone of the wall of the cellar. Perhaps those two guards are right. Perhaps John isn’t coming to help him after all. God knows why he should, Sherlock thinks wryly. He’s led him into enough trouble over the time they’ve lived together. Why should John risk his life for Sherlock? If the man had any sense at all after learning that his flatmate has been kidnapped by Moriarty he would keep as far away as he could. As selfish as it might be of him though, Sherlock cannot help but desperately want John to be here. He curses himself for being so weak. But surely, right at this minute, it is okay to let his guard down. He is alone, there is nobody here to see if he falls apart. Slowly the tears he lets fall start to trickle down his pale cheeks. Nobody. He is alone. And he doesn’t blame John at all. Moriarty would have taken great pains to ensure that he disappeared with the utmost secrecy. Hardly anybody would be able to follow a trail like that... apart from him. For the first time in his life he finds himself longing for human contact... no, for contact from John. Just a hug or even a pat on the shoulder. Something to get him through. He knows that John will never, ever reciprocate his feelings. John is straight and has a lovely, though somewhat dull, girlfriend in Sarah. The most he can count on from John is his friendship. And he considers himself more than lucky to have that. Enough. Enough with feeling sorry for himself. He needs to get out of this cellar.   
Sherlock settles back against the wall, bracing himself for the pain, and awaits the night. He is going to escape, come what may.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

He had counted on being left alone until the next day, following the pattern that seems to be forming during his captivity. Instead, probably around mid-afternoon, he is honoured by a visit from Moriarty himself.   
The man wanders down the steps, but instead of approaching his captive, stands with his arms folded at the opposite side of the room.  
‘Well... this is boring,’ he announces. Sherlock blinks but makes no response, waiting for more information. ‘I had hoped that your faithful little pet would have made an appearance by now but... no such luck.’  
Sherlock grits his teeth. ‘Has it occurred to you that he’s not coming?’ he spits.  
Moriarty grins. ‘Oh yes, it’s occurred to me.’ He shrugs. ‘But I rejected it. As we saw during the little demonstration at the pool... he’s so touchingly loyal. No...’ Moriarty strokes his chin with one long forefinger. ‘... no, I rather think I made things a teensy bit too difficult for him. I was accounting for the fact he’s stupid but this is beyond ridiculous.’ He wanders a little closer to Sherlock, who finds himself automatically shifting backwards as if trying to press himself through the wall. He knows, more than many, exactly how unpredicatable Moriarty is. He would do well to treat him with caution. ‘Oh well. It just means I have more time with you. And that is no bad thing.’ His smile becomes hungry, predatory. ‘I have more time to enjoy my favourite plaything before playtime comes to an end.’  
He is right in front of Sherlock now, and crouches down before him. Sherlock has backed away as far as he can and so now contents himself with bracing his palms against the concrete floor.  
‘So tense,’ Moriarty cooes softly. ‘Let’s see if we can fix that for you, shall we?’ Without warning he presses his lips against Sherlock’s. The detective jolts with surprise and wrenches his head away.   
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, mind racing. ‘I thought the whole ‘gay’ thing was just an act to throw me off the scent.’  
Moriarty rocks back on his heels and places a hand deliberately on Sherlock’s thigh. He smiles. ‘Come now, Sherlock. Even us psychopaths need... release... once in a while. I just happen to prefer men. There’s no emotion involved, believe me.’ He grimaces. ‘Not like you.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws Sherlock’s journal. The detective takes a startled breath. ‘Oh yes, this was too good to leave behind. But don’t you see, Sherlock?’ He pauses, his eyes surprisingly soft and gentle. ‘This is my ultimate revenge. To render you so broken so...’ he pauses and his hands gesture to the air as if searching for his meaning, ‘... so worthless that John will never want you. And so it won’t matter if by some miracle you or your little pet manages to kill me.’ He leans forward so he is staring Sherlock intently in the eyes. ‘I will still have won. Isn’t that fantastic?’  
‘Get away from me,’ Sherlock spits in disgust. He can almost feel his skin crawling from Moriarty’s hand upon his leg.  
In response Moriarty’s hand creeps upwards, towards his groin. Sherlock knocks his hand away and fixes him with a freezing glare.  
‘My, my... you are strong, aren’t you? But that’s good... very good. It means my victory will be all the sweeter.’  
‘What victory?’ Sherlock sneers. ‘You don’t know you’ve won yet, you’re not going to break me. And John is coming.’  
‘Doubt it,’ Moriarty says bluntly, with a blithe smile. ‘I know how much you care for him, obviously, but I think I may have overestimated how much he cares for you... for all we know he might well be sitting in the flat right now, sipping a cup of tea and enjoying how much more peaceful life is without Sherlock Holmes around.’  
Sherlock tries desperately not to listen to his deepest fears being voiced aloud, but cannot quite manage it. Moriarty’s high-pitched voice is like a drill through his skull, piercing through to his brain.  
Without warning, and before Sherlock can stop him, Moriarty has leant forwards again and has placed his hand directly on top of Sherlock’s crotch. Disgusted Sherlock kicks out but it fails to dislodge the consulting criminal, who merely tightens his grip, almost to the point of pain.  
‘Don’t you get it yet, Sherlock? I can do what I want with you... whatever I want. And you can’t do a thing to stop me.’ Sherlock grimaces in pain as Moriarty’s grip becomes tighter still and then suddenly the man has got up and is making his way back up the stairs. ‘Get a good night’s sleep if you can, Sherlock. I can promise you that tomorrow is going to be very interesting. You won’t want to miss a minute.’  
Sherlock watches him leave and sweeps a hand through his curls almost anxiously. Tonight. It has to be tonight.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Lestrade arrives at two o’clock on the dot. John hears Mrs Hudson let him in and then the Detective Inspector is standing at the doorway to the living room, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. John remains seated in the sofa, still too angry and upset about the recent DVD to move. Mycroft steps into the breach.  
‘Ahh. Detective Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it?’  
Lestrade steps forwards into the room to shake Mycroft’s outstretched hand, a frown crinkling his brow.  
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He pauses briefly. ‘Sorry, but... who are you? I don’t think...’  
‘No, no, we wouldn’t have been introduced. My name is Mycroft Holmes.’  
John watches Lestrade turn slightly pale and stagger back a few steps. Almost the same reaction he had when he had learnt the two were related. He ought to have seen it coming, of course. How could two men be so similarly brilliant, arrogant and stubborn and not have some genes in common?  
‘Holmes?’ Lestrade gasps. ‘You mean... there’s two of you?’  
John laughs despite himself and tries to disguise it by coughing. Mycroft smiles slightly, although there isn’t much warmth in it. ‘Indeed. I’m Sherlock’s older brother. I’ve had a few dealings with Doctor Watson here, and we have some evidence we’d rather like to show you, if that’s alright?’  
As always the older Holmes manages to make a question sound like a command. Lestrade swallows and Mycroft nods to the two DVDs stacked on the coffee table.  
‘I suggest you watch those... right now. Perhaps then you will start to take this case more seriously.’  
John, unable to face watching the videos again, busies himself in the kitchen making tea for the Inspector as he sits on the sofa and slots the DVDs into the laptop. He pays a lot of attention to the brewing of the tea, trying to distract himself from the sounds emanating from the living room.  
In another few minutes he has the drinks ready and heads over to Lestrade, handing him his tea. The DVDs seem to have stopped and John notices that Lestrade looks both absolutely furious and also slightly ill. He has turned pale and looks as though he might be sick.  
‘You know this Moriarty?’ he asks John eventually.  
‘You could say that. You remember the incident at the pool? Sherlock told you that there was nobody there except me wearing the bomb vest. He said he managed to get it off me but then it blew unexpectedly.’ Lestrade nods. John feels a slight twinge of guilt. ‘Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Moriarty was there. He was the one behind all the little games he sent to Sherlock, he calls himself a consulting criminal. He’s a psychopath and he’s got it in for Sherlock.’  
Lestrade groans and clenches his fists. ‘Why can’t Sherlock ever tell me anything? Why on earth would he keep something like that a secret?’  
John shrugs tiredly. ‘You know him, Lestrade. This thing that Sherlock and Moriarty do... it’s like they’re testing each other, each trying to prove that they’re the more intelligent. Sherlock wouldn’t even have considered telling you. In his mind this is between him and Moriarty. And perhaps me,’ he adds as an afterthought.  
‘And just look at where being clever’s got him!’ Lestrade shouts and takes a few deep breaths before something new seems to occur to him. ‘Hang on a minute... are you telling me that you knew this Moriarty was behind the kidnapping when you first told me Sherlock was missing?’  
John’s shoulders slump. ‘I had an inkling, yes. But I didn’t know for sure. Not until I got the first DVD which you’ve just watched.’  
Lestrade eyes John for a few seconds and then switches his gaze to Mycroft who is still standing silent and watchful across the room. He sighs.  
‘Alright. I think you’d better tell me everything straight from the beginning, John. We both have to be on the same page if we’ve got any hope of finding Sherlock.’ The word alive at the end is unsaid but thought by everyone in the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Not having a watch on him is becoming increasingly irritating for Sherlock. He has very little idea about how much time is going past, the only indications he gets are when the door to the corridor is opened, allowing him to either see daylight or lamplight. He spends most of the afternoon and early evening in a state of semi-consciousness almost. He finds himself jolting awake and realizing that he has been asleep, but for how long he doesn’t know. Eventually he sees what is definitely artificial light being switched on in the hallway as a narrow strip shows underneath the door to the cellar.  
He will give it another four or so hours, or four hours to the best of his ability. And pray that the routine doesn’t change and that he will be left uninterrupted.  
Happily the routine remains the same and it definitely seems like it’s been far over four hours since he saw the light in the corridor being switched on. He fumbles for the safety pin in his jeans with his good hand with slight difficulty because they’re going numb due to the frigid air in the cellar. Eventually he manages to work it free and turns his attention to the handcuffs chaining him in place. They are simple old-fashioned ones with a tumbler lock inside which should be easy to pick assuming he can get the pin into the correct position. Before he starts he takes a few calming breaths, as deeply as he can manage. The pain in his chest is starting to worsen and it hurts to inhale properly. Anxiously he notices that his hands are almost constantly trembling and show no signs of stopping.  
‘Come on, Sherlock,’ he rasps to himself. ‘Pull it together. This is your chance.’ Attempting to steady his hands, he tries to get the pin into the first handcuff. His first try fails completely as his hand is shaking so hard he misses the keyhole and he almost stabs himself through the finger.  
‘Come on!’ he mutters to himself, and the second attempt is successful. He works the pin around in the chamber for what feels like hours until he finally hears the tell-tale click which means the tumbler has sprung back.  
Sure enough when he withdraws the pin, the handcuff opens easily. He allows himself a minute of massaging the raw and reddened skin on the newly freed wrist and then turns his attention to his other chain. This one is harder as he has to use the hand with the broken fingers to hold the pin. He is very lucky however in that the broken fingers are his little one and the next one along. He is still able to use the gripping motion of his thumb and forefinger. It does take him longer during which time beads of sweat start to spring up on his brow but eventually he hears the click which indicates the lock being sprung. Hardly able to believe it he frees his other hand and sits still for a moment or two appreciating the fact that he is unchained and there are no guards around to drag him somewhere for more torture. For the first time he starts to let himself hope that he may actually manage to escape tonight, if he is very careful.  
After a minute or so he thinks he should attempt to stand up and see if his legs can take his weight. Moving slowly and painfully he gathers his faculties and rises. He wobbles and totters a little as he finally straightens up, but he can do it. He can stand unaided and this is very good. For a minute he was envisaging having to crawl up the stairs and down the corridor.  
What if the door is locked? What are you going to do then?  
He scoffs at himself. He is being ridiculous. He would have heard them if they’d locked the door everytime they left and entered.  
Would you though? Your brain hasn’t been too... reliable... recently, has it?  
No, no. He will not let himself think like that. The door won’t be locked. It won’t be...  
What about a guard? What if there’s a guard sitting right outside? What are you going to do then?  
There won’t be a guard. He imagines that Moriarty is probably so supremely confident that he won’t escape that he won’t have bothered. This is what he desperately tells himself as he takes shaky steps across the floor and up the stairs. The stairs are tricky as they’re quite steep and it makes his legs hurt a little but finally he gains the top. Reaching out a pale hand he grasps the doorknob of the door.  
Please don’t let there be a guard. Please let it be unlocked...


	9. The Great Escape

Chapter Nine

The Great Escape

The handle turns easily. Sherlock lets out the breath he has been holding and allows the door to swing open. Surely there will be a guard. A guard sitting there staring at him and ready to raise the alarm. But there is nobody. The corridor ahead is completely empty. Sherlock stands, swaying slightly, almost unable to believe his good luck. Good luck? There is no such thing. Surely this is a trap. A trap which he is about to fall into.   
He lurches forward, half expecting a blaring siren to leap into life and alert the entire mansion to his attempted escape. Nothing. As he moves down the corridor there is not the slightest sign of life.  
It can’t be this easy, he thinks to himself. There has to be something. Something I’m not understanding. But he is too tired and pain-filled to worry about it for long. All he is thinking at the moment is to get out and get out fast, if he can. The corridor seems an interminable length. Every time he takes a step the front door moves no closer and it seems like he will never reach it at all.  
Eventually, however, he does. He looks at the solid mahogany and grasps the handle as firmly as he is able. This is it. It will be locked... of course it will be.  
It turns in his hand and he lets go of the handle, almost in shock. His mind is brandishing red flags urgently. This can’t be right! But it’s real. The front door gives under pressure and soon enough is swinging outwards, bringing a fresh and very welcome cold breeze onto Sherlock’s face as he stands in the threshold.  
He allows himself a moment of appreciation. The feel of fresh air on his skin seems to revitalise him somewhat. Stepping forwards onto the porch a gust of wind swirls around him, raising goosebumps on his skin. It is at this point he realizes that he has neglected to put on his shirt which is still lying along with his coat in a corner of the cellar. He isn’t that bothered. The cold will keep him alert, much like a driver who is tired might switch the air-conditioning in their car onto cool just to keep them uncomfortable enough so they won’t fall asleep. Sherlock welcomes it. Just being outside seems to kick-start his brain again, all those sleepy connections brush away the cobwebs and start to hum to life.  
He is facing a long driveway, edged with herbaceous plants and bushes. They are all overgrown and weeds are springing up everywhere along the once obviously well-cared for path. Turning slowly he spares a glance up at the front of the mansion where he has been held captive. Much as he suspected it is huge, but has fallen into a state of almost total disrepair. The stonework is crumbling and moss and lichen have made their home in the cracks in the walls. Several windows along the edifice have obviously been shattered by hooligans in the past and are now boarded up... but no attempt has been made to repair them and they gape forlornly in the faded moonlight.  
Sherlock turns his attention to the steps and, one step at a time, falteringly moves down them. They prove slightly tricky as his legs haven’t quite got used to the idea of walking yet. The steps up from the cellar were hard enough but at least there had been a handrail. Soon enough, and after a great deal of effort, he gains the level ground of the driveway.   
He has to pause for a moment and then suddenly sneezes several times very loudly. This is followed swiftly by a tickle in his throat which makes him cough harshly. The sound is devastatingly loud in the silent night air. Sherlock freezes while the echoes die around him. Surely someone heard that. Surely someone will be coming any minute to drag him back inside for more torture. Nothing. Still nothing.  
Hardly able to believe his good luck he stumbles forwards across the gravel, bare feet freezing and scraping against the occasional sharp stone. If he can make some sort of main road he will be alright. All he has to do is wait for a passing car and hitchhike his way back to London.   
Now he is outside he can faintly hear the roar of traffic which is a promising sign. The only trouble is he knows how sound can carry and so the mutter of passing cars could be literally miles away.  
He has advanced almost all the way up the drive, and can glimpse, through various bushes, what looks like a minor road ahead. He stumbles towards it, trying to ignore the increasing agony in his back, the ache in his chest and the pain in his feet.   
Suddenly, behind him, he is aware of blazing lights being flicked on in the fairly darkened mansion. Shouts carry to him on the freezing night air.   
‘He’s gone! Someone get the boss!’  
‘Check the grounds! He can’t have gone far!’  
Sherlock’s heart almost stops with fear but his feet carry him onwards as if they know before his brain the seriousness of the situation. He has to find somewhere to hide. Where can he go...? he can hear thudding footsteps emerging from the mansion and the shouts are getting nearer.  
Suddenly his brain registers a different noise. Something so totally unexpected it takes him a second to process what he is hearing. Someone is strolling down the road next to the driveway, whistling casually.   
Uncaring of his feet, his chest or the wounds on his back, Sherlock hurls himself towards the noise. Unfortunately his feet kick up some gravel as he sprints forward and alerts his guards to his whereabouts. He can hear their shouts of triumph and the pounding feet as they draw closer.   
He gains the road. A man has just passed the entrance to the driveway, a fairly scruffy man with a tattered hold-all in one hand who has paused just behind a large, leafy plant looking faintly puzzled at all the commotion coming from the house.  
Poor, Sherlock’s mind thinks immediately. Given his appearance and general demeanour I’d say he has nowhere to live. Not miserable, though. His whistling is indicative of that and he is walking as though he has springs in his feet. The state of his clothes, however, and the fact that he wears the look I so often see will give credibility to the theory he is homeless.  
‘Hey!’ Sherlock hisses. The man turns from staring at the house and Sherlock sees his eyes widen in surprise. He can imagine what he looks like. Wild curly black hair on end, bulging eyes, shirtless and shoeless... he must look like a lunatic. ‘Help me...’ Sherlock manages before the first of the guards catches up to him. Almost like fog the man on the road fades into the darkness and hides behind the hedge. He sees everything.  
He sees the crazy man with the staring eyes shout aloud, though his voice is hoarse and rasping. The thug who grabs him is bulging with muscles and has no trouble subduing the crazy man. He grasps his arms behind his back and begins manhandling him back to the mansion. The crazy man fights all the way, kicking his legs out and flailing his head as though trying to knock his restrainer into unconsciousness. He fails though, and they soon draw out of sight.

XXXXXXXXX

Lou McEwan stays where he is for an indefinite amount of time. What was it the crazy man had said? ‘Hey! Help me...’ And as he was dragged off, although it was hard to tell what with the shouting from the mansion and the fact the man’s voice was raspy as hell... what was it? Something like, ‘Tell John’. That’s all he could hear,and it doesn’t make any sense to him. Who the hell is John? And what on earth is he going to do about it? It doesn’t take a genius to know that the crazy man is obviously being held against his will in that mansion for some reason. But is it really any of his business? He only passed by this way because the mansion is usually unoccupied and is a good place to doss for the night. It has been unavailable for the past few days but Lou isn’t particularly bothered. There are other places.   
But this, this is interesting. On the spur of the moment Lou makes a decision. He will go and see his friend Ian in London, who is generally to be found loitering around many of the homeless shelters or begging in Trafalgar Square, and see whether he knows anything. Ian is generally connected with all the shady goings on in and around London and if this deal with the crazy bloke isn’t illegal Lou will eat his hat.  
Decision made he starts to make his winding way towards the heart of London. It will take him awhile but he has had plenty of experience of sleeping rough in unhospitable areas. And this thing with the mad dude has been the most exciting thing to happen to him for months. He can’t wait to tell Ian. Sometimes there is a cash reward for information. Lou could do with a cash reward.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Hunter almost laughs at Sherlock’s pathetic attempts to get away from him. Sherlock is like an insect in his palm... one he can squash with no effort whatsoever. But the man insists on kicking his legs and flailing around like a lunatic. Eventually Hunter jabs him hard with a stubby finger in one of the human body’s many sensitive pressure points. Sherlock falls unconscious almost instantly and Hunter sighs in relief.   
He deposits Sherlock back in the cellar, chains his wrists and leaves, locking the door carefully behind him. From the stairs he hears a cold voice calling to him.  
‘You found him then?’  
He turns and faces the stairs, his head slightly bowed. Moriarty stands above him, leaning on the railings, his face curiously blank and devoid of emotion.  
‘We did, sir. He’s back in the cellar.’  
Moriarty nods once. ‘Did he manage to contact anyone?’ Hunter has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. They are in a derelict mansion almost in the middle of nowhere. Who on earth would Sherlock contact?  
‘No, sir.’  
Moriarty’s eyes are sharp as he gazes at Hunter. ‘Apparently there was a commotion and he was talking to somebody when he was recaptured.’  
‘He was raving, sir. We did a thorough check of the grounds... there was nobody there. He was probably hallucinating.’  
‘Hmm.’ Moriarty rubs a finger against his chin in thought and then seems to make up his mind. ‘Good. Keep him down there until I tell you otherwise. He is to see nobody until I decide to pay him a visit. Do you understand?’  
‘Yes, sir,’ Hunter replies deferentially. Moriarty, appearing to lose interest in the conversation, turns abruptly and heads back down the upstairs corridor. Hunter allows himself to relax. Conversations like those with the boss always make him tense.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Wednesday

John Watson sits on the sofa in the apartment drumming his fingers on the coffee table and staring at his phone. Mycroft and Lestrade had both informed him that they would ring the minute anything came up. So far... nothing. His phone remains irritatingly, horribly, silent. Well, almost silent. Yesterday he had heard the ringtone while he was shaving in the bathroom. He’d hurled himself towards the sound so fast he’d cut a rather painful and deep gash in the side of his neck from the razor. Blood had been dripping down his neck as he snatched his mobile up and stared at the display. He had hardly noticed the pain. And then he saw the caller ID. Sarah. Not Mycroft or Lestrade. Not even, and he knows he is an idiot for even hoping this, not even Sherlock. He can imagine the conversation inside his head.  
‘Sherlock! My God... where... what...?’ And Sherlock’s response would be so typically dry and sarcastic.  
‘Come on, John. I go away for a couple of days and you lose the power of speech? Now come quickly, we have to hurry or we’re going to lose Moriarty. Twenty minutes.’ He would give John an address and then hang up, certain in the knowledge that John would drop anything he was doing and come.  
Which of course, he would. In an instant. It had been that way since the moment they met and it would always be like that. How could he have imagined, even for a second, that he actually wanted to leave Sherlock? Where would he go? To Sarah’s? Unaware he is doing so he lets out a ‘pfff’ noise from the back of his throat. Move in with Sarah? Ridiculous. Why does it have to take something so traumatic as Sherlock being kidnapped for him to realize that? Sinking back into the sofa cushions he once again thinks of something which has been floating across his mind for the past few days. He and Sherlock are irrevecably bound to each other. Well, he is to Sherlock for sure. Where Sherlock goes he will follow.   
He levers himself up out of the chair, since Sherlock’s disappearance his leg has started to bother him again, and heads toward the kitchen to make another cup of tea. He seems to be getting through teabags and milk at a rather alarming rate these days. Just as he reaches the fridge his phone rings, the tone blaring through the silent apartment like a siren.  
He freezes and then turns slowly on the spot. If this is Sarah again, I will scream. I will actually scream. Moving quickly he crosses to the coffee table and glances at the screen.  
MYCROFT CALLING  
Immediately he picks it up and presses the answer key, holding it to his ear, hoping against hope that something has finally happened. That they finally have a clue as to Sherlock’s whereabouts.  
‘John?’ Mycroft sounds unlike he ever has before. There is a definite ring of tiredness in his voice but also, what? Excitement? Hope? John feels his heart speed up a little.  
‘Yes? What is it, Mycroft? Have you found anything?’  
‘Well... perhaps. A member of my team has just informed me that he has found some video evidence which might or might not have some bearing on Sherlock’s kidnap. Can you meet me there? Say... twenty minutes?’  
‘What you’re not sending a car for me this time?’ He means this to be taken as a joke but Mycroft obviously doesn’t get it.  
‘No time,’ he responds curtly. ‘Just get there, John.’ He gives John an address which he scrawls down on a scrap of paper and ends the call.  
Hurriedly John throws on his coat and shouts to Mrs Hudson that he is going out. He shoves his wallet into his jeans’ pocket and virtually flies down the stairs, his injured leg completely forgotten.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft is waiting for him on the pavement as the taxi pulls up. John gets out and they walk together up to a rather uninspiring building’s front door. Mycroft scans a key-card through a security lock and pulls the door open, motioning John to enter first.  
The lobby is rather drab and dim with brown wallpaper and pale blue tiles on the floor. A desk stands in one corner manned by a slender woman with brown hair. Mycroft nods to her as they pass.  
‘Morning, Linda.’  
‘Good morning, Mr Holmes,’ she replies in a soft, well-spoken voice. As they cross by the desk John notices her make a small note on a pad of paper.  
They enter the lift which stands next to the desk and Mycroft jabs the eleventh floor button. John frowns slightly. Mycroft, with the innate ability he and his brother share for reading people, looks at him sharply.  
‘You’ve got questions,’ he announces. John sighs and nods.  
‘I thought you, er, occupied a... position, in the British Government...’ he begins hesitantly. There has always been some confusion in his mind about what Sherlock’s older brother actually does for a living. Mycroft always claims he holds a small but valuable position. To hear Sherlock tell it, however, Mycroft is the British Goverment with fingers in a great number of influential pies.  
‘That is correct,’ Mycroft replies.  
‘Well, I mean... I suppose, I always thought that the British Goverment offices might be more, well...’  
‘Glamorous?’ Mycroft suggests with a raised eyebrow. John sighs and nods. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. But ours is a serious business. We have no need for glamour. And the more discreet the offices, the less attention we draw to ourselves, which can come in very useful on occasion.’ The curtness of his reply makes it clear to John that any further questions on the topic will be fruitless so he holds his tongue.  
The doors open into another small lobby. They cross it, John glancing at the dying plant in a pot in the corner, and go into a large room filled with desks and computers. It could be the office of some accounting firm, John thinks.  
Mycroft moves swiftly between the desks, murmuring greetings here and there and John follows, trying to ignore the curious eyes on him. Everyone here is impeccably dressed and John is beginning to feel severely out of place in his shabby coat and scuffed trainers.  
‘Nathan. What have you got?’ Mycroft has reached a desk near the end of the room and a rather scrawny young man with red hair and glasses in a well-fitted dark suit abruptly gets up and shakes Mycroft’s hand.  
‘Good morning, Mr Holmes. I’m not sure this is going to help much, but I thought better not to take the risk.’  
‘Quite right,’ Mycroft snaps, moving so that John can sit down on a spare chair and peer at Nathan’s computer screen as well. The young man glances at him curiously and then looks at Mycroft, as if for permission to continue. Mycroft waves a hand irritably. ‘Yes, yes, carry on, Nathan. This is Doctor Watson, a close acquaintance of mine. He is also very...’ he glances swiftly at John, ‘... very friendly with my brother.’ John bristles. He knows exactly what Mycroft is insinuating with that remark. To even consider the idea that he and Sherlock are... well, a couple. It’s ridiculous. Obviously. Absolutely ridiculous. They’re just friends, good friends.  
Nathan glances once more at John and then looks back at his computer. ‘Right. Anyway, well I’ll pull it up for you and you can see what you make of it.’  
John is expecting Nathan to open up some high-tech video surveillance software, but instead he accesses the internet and opens up Youtube.  
‘Youtube?’ John exclaims incredulously and then quickly shuts his mouth as both Nathan and Mycroft glare at him. Dozens of possiblities are running through John’s head. He hasn’t received any tapes from Moriarty since the lashing and that was on Sunday. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about this, but he has been trying to tamp down on his growing panic. Has Moriarty decided to upload his sick ‘demonstrations’ to Youtube now? Are they about to see Sherlock being beaten up, or having his ankles broken or... God knows what else?  
Nathan signs into his account and accesses his favourites. The most recent is titled ‘Hilarious pratfall... MUST watch’. John frowns. How on earth is this going to help them? Nathan, almost seeming to sense the incredulity emanating from John and perhaps Mycroft as well, raises his eyes from the screen to look at them.  
‘I got sent this by a friend of mine. He’s keen on searching through Youtube for all those stupid accident videos. You know, where people fall over in ridiculous ways. I thought this was just another one of those, but then I looked closely at the background because something caught my eye...’ He returns his gaze to the computer and clicks on the video to start it playing.   
The opening scene is fairly busy street somewhere in London. It is full of people shopping and from that John imagines that this was probably filmed on a weekend. There are never this many people shopping during the week. The person filming seems to be videoing a group of his mates, three lads who are walking in front of the camera, pushing and jostling each other good-naturedly. The video carries on in this vein for maybe twenty seconds or so, just following the guys down the street. Suddenly just ahead of the group, a woman’s small dog makes a break for another dog walking with its owner the other way. It crosses, barking frantically, directly in front of the group of ambling, laughing men. Two of them stop, raising their hands almost as if to keep their balance. The third isn’t quite so lucky. Unable to stop his feet in time he enacts what is almost a slow-motion comedy fall over the dog, turning around as he crashes to the ground so that he lands heavily on his arse. The camera view starts shaking and John assumes the film-maker has started laughing hard, much like the two other guys as the one on the floor groans and massages his bum.  
‘You bastards! This isn’t funny!’ is distinctly heard from the guy on the ground. Far from sobering up his friends it just seems to make them laugh harder. The video cuts out just after this. All in all it is about a minute and a half long. John frowns, puzzled. Mycroft looks mildly annoyed.  
‘My God, do people actually waste their time watching this stuff?’ he asks in a tone of genuine puzzlement.   
‘Apparently,’ Nathan responds wryly. ‘It’s got over six hundred thousand hits. But the guys aren’t the important part. I’ll play it again. Concentrate on a road just ahead of the guys to the left. It’s like a small alley or something.’  
He flicks back to the beginning and the video starts to play again. This time John forces himself to ignore the men in the foreground and scans the background for the road Nathan has mentioned.   
There it is. He stares at it for a few seconds, unsure what he is supposed to be looking for. Then, suddenly, a car which has been driving up the road turns abruptly into it and stops, still just visible in the lip of the road. John sees instantly the significance. The car has the registration number and is identical to the car which abducted Sherlock. He shuffles straighter in his chair and leans in closer to the screen. For another second nothing happens and then the front passenger door opens and a bulky man casually dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans gets out. He has a baseball cap on and seems to walk with his head lowered. He opens the back passenger door and bends down, out of sight briefly of the video which has just started shaking as the guy holding the camera starts laughing. When he reappears he has a man’s arm slung over his back and then as he backs up, two men issue from the car. One is evidently either asleep or unconscious due to the odd way his dark curly head lolls on the bulky man’s shoulder. The other is dressed in a similar manner to the first man but he is slightly smaller and slimmer. He has the unconscious man’s other arm slung around his shoulder. Together, moving quickly they disappear down the road, out of the camera’s view, the third man slumped between them. A couple of seconds after this and a fourth exits the car. There is no mistaking who this is. Even with his head bowed and walking quickly John would recognize him anywhere. Moriarty. And the unconscious man is, of course, Sherlock.   
‘Jesus,’ John mutters. ‘They did this in broad daylight? Just off a street full of people shopping? I thought Moriarty was a genius.’  
‘It’s not stupid, John. It’s very, very clever.’ Mycroft speaks up, still staring at the now dark computer screen. ‘You should have learnt this by now, after living with my brother for so long. Ordinary people never notice anything. They are in their own little world for almost ninety-nine percent of the time. Unless Moriarty had literally thrown Sherlock onto the pavement in front of them, they would never have noticed anything untoward happening. It’s the best way to be invisible, by acting in the middle of a crowd.’  
John is forcefully reminded of the first case he’d ever done for Sherlock, the one with the murderous cabbie, which he’d entitled in his blog A Study In Pink.  
‘We’d better get moving,’ Mycroft says abruptly. ‘Come on Doctor Watson. Thank you, Nathan. Keep looking, see what else you can find out.’  
Nathan nods and turns his attention back to the screen with a cursory nod at John. John hurries to keep up as Mycroft strides back down the room towards the lift, his dark coat billowing in a manner so reminiscent of his younger brother’s. Damn it. Why does everything have to remind him of Sherlock?  
‘Where are we going?’ John asks as they enter the lift and Mycroft jabs the button for the ground-floor bad temperedly.  
The man looks around at him with an expression of incredulity. ‘Lambeth, of course. Where on earth did you think we would be going?’  
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ John feels beyond stupid suddenly.   
Because you’re an idiot. Oh, no, don’t be like that. Practically everyone is.  
John desperately hopes that Dave gets back to him soon with something, anything. It would make him feel like he has contributed something in the hunt to find Sherlock, other than making endless cups of tea and moping around the apartment. Over the last few days that has been pretty much all that he has been doing and he hates how fucking useless it makes him feel. Perhaps if he’d paid just a little bit more attention to Sherlock when he was deducing it would have made him more helpful in this investigation. It kills him to think that Sherlock, that brilliant, enigmatic, sarcastic, beautiful man might die because of John’s ineptitude. He is fairly sure that Moriarty is banking on him being too stupid to find Sherlock and it would be far beyond bearable to prove him right.  
Wait... beautiful? What?  
John shoves the errant thought to the back of his mind. This isn’t the time to start psycho-analyzing himself. The lift stops and Mycroft strides out, swinging his umbrella almost viciously as he goes. John follows and tries not to think of how he must look like a puppy or dog following at the heels of its master.  
People get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal.  
You’re very loyal, very quickly.  
No, I’m not, I’m just not interested.  
John shakes his head to clear these unwelcome thoughts from his mind as they get into the taxi once outside and focusses as Mycroft snaps out an address in Lambeth to the cabbie. The older man is more agitated than John has ever seen him, and he would suspect it has something to do with the fact that the end of the week is fast approaching and they still have no concrete clues to go on, other than a brief glimpse of the car in a Youtube video. If John had ever had any doubts as to how much Mycroft actually cares about his younger brother, these past few days have eliminated them all. The man has been like a whirlwind of energy, not stopping for even a moment as far as John can make out. He wonders if Sherlock knows exactly how much Mycroft cares. Perhaps not. They hardly seem like a family used to emotionally sharing themselves.  
Traffic is light and they find themselves on the street seen on the video in about fifteen minutes. Mycroft thrusts a bundle of notes at the cabbie, gets out of the car and starts walking, not waiting to see if John is keeping up. Soon enough they see the alleyway or small road the car had turned down and are standing where the car had parked in less than a minute. John stares around slightly desperately.  
There is nothing to see. It is a small and narrow road which connects the main road behind them to one running parallel to it on the other side. The way the buildings tower up on either side of them means that it is dark and shadowy even when the sun is blazing. A good spot to transfer an unconcious man from one car into another. Or at least, that is what John imagines would have happened. Mycroft strides away from John, apparently to have a look at the road opposite them.  
John doesn’t follow. He scans around the immediate area and tries to retrace the movements of the two men with Sherlock. If the car had been, here...   
He begins moving as he remembers the men in the video had moved, imagining he was supporting an unconscious Sherlock. He keeps his eyes on the ground. And then he sees it. Tiny, almost invisible on the dirty tarmac of the road.  
He kneels swiftly and examines it more closely. Yes. There are a couple of droplets of blood. Thinking back he remembers that in the first video Sherlock had had a head wound which was still fairly fresh. Someone in the car knocked him viciously unconscious and the injury had bled leaving faint tracks as he was transferred. Swiftly John searches about for more droplets. Yes, there, just ahead of him. They carry on intermittently for a few paces and then abruptly stop. John stands up and critically eyes the distance of the last bloodstain from the curb of the pavement. Definitely wide enough for a medium-sized car. This confirms his theory, in case there was any doubt about what had happened to the detective after he was hauled from the lexus. He was moved to another, probably less obvious car, and driven away. But where?  
Mycroft starts walking back towards John, seemingly unable to find anything worthy of notice at the other end of the road.  
‘Found anything?’ he asks in a tone of voice which makes it blatantly obvious he fully expects the answer to be ‘no’. It is with some satisfaction that John points out the bloodstains on the road. Mycroft looks faintly surprised.  
‘Well done, Doctor Watson. I wouldn’t have...’ he trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Instead he settles for, ‘Spending time with my brother has certainly rubbed off on you.’  
John is just about to respond when someone hails him from behind. ‘Hey! Doctor Watson!’ He turns in surprise. Dave is standing at the entrance to the small road. Hurriedly John jogs over to him.  
‘Do you have anything on Sherlock?’ he asks eagerly. Dave nods.  
‘I’ll say I do. Hang on...’ He looks anxious as Mycroft starts to stalk towards them. John winces. This may be tricky.  
‘Don’t worry, Dave. This is Mycroft Holmes.’ Before he has a chance to get any further Dave jumps in.  
‘’Olmes?’  
Grimacing slightly Mycroft holds out the hand which is not clutching his umbrella. ‘Indeed. I’m Sherlock’s older brother. And yes, I know...’ he says before Dave can interrupt again. ‘... he probably wouldn’t have mentioned me.’ Slightly reluctantly Dave shakes Mycroft’s hand which the older man withdraws almost immediately and then subtly wipes on his coat. Dave notices this and frowns.  
John rubs his temples with his fingertips and addresses Dave. ‘Anything about Sherlock can be said in front of Mycroft. You’re not going to get in any sort of trouble, no matter what it is. Right?’ The last word is addressed to Mycroft in a vaguely threatening manner. Mycroft visibly bristles but seems to recognize that the look in John’s eyes means business.   
‘Precisely,’ he says with a small smile. ‘I want my brother back alive and I honestly couldn’t care less about how legally it’s achieved.’   
Dave casts one more uneasy glance at Mycroft and then turns his attention fully to John. ‘Right. Okay, well, listen close...’


	10. In Come The Cavalry

Chapter Ten

In Come The Cavalry

Sherlock dearly wishes he has the energy to drum his heels against the floor, rattle his chains, shout, scream... do something. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the energy for anything anymore. He slumps listlessly, the cold from the stone flagged floor soaking through his jeans, and feels utterly wretched. He has hardly seen anyone in the past, what is it now, two days? A couple of hours after his failed escape attempt he was visited by Moriarty.  
The psychopath didn’t do anything for awhile, just stood at the top of the cellar stairs and stared down at Sherlock unfathomably. Just when Sherlock was beginning to think Moriarty had died or gone into some odd trance, he had moved. Before Sherlock could blink Moriarty was right next to him and letting rip savage kicks at every part of his anatomy he could reach. Sherlock, his brain recognizing that this was a punishment of sorts for his attempted escape, did nothing to stop him apart from curling into a ball so as to present less of a target. Once Moriarty had left him alone he had drawn himself up and sworn at the world until he could imagine the air had turned a violent blue. It had helped him feel a little more resilient... a little more like himself. Which is hard, as he feels as though himself is being eroded a little bit more with every day that goes past. His mind is stagnating, there is nothing to do, nothing to focus on. He had been occupying himself with thoughts of escape and now that that is totally out of the question (Moriarty had located and confiscated his safety pin) he is at a loss.   
Most people learn how to cope with boredom early on, in their childhood. Their parents usually ensure that they find out how to occupy themselves. Not so for Sherlock. Since it was obvious almost from the moment of his birth that Sherlock was a particularly gifted child his parents had seen to it that he was stimulated (some might say over-stimulated) virtually every minute of every day.   
It idly occurs to him that perhaps Moriarty should have dispensed with all the casual torture and simply left him to his own thoughts ever since the moment of his capture. Surely that would have been more effective. Mental cruelty. Forcing Sherlock to endure his own company for days on end with absolutely no distractions available.   
Anyway. Since the beating Sherlock has seen virtually nobody unless you count the odd generic guard who appears every so often to take him for a loo-break. Sherlock supposes he should count himself lucky that Moriarty still sees fit to keep him decent, after a fashion.   
Another thing that worries him is the fact that he seems to be more and more dependent on leaning on the guard as they make their way out of the cellar for the loo-breaks. At first it was okay... his legs were a little shaky, but manageable. However, the last time he got collected for a break, he found he was virtually unable to support his own weight. He had to resort to leaning heavily on the guard’s shoulder.  
Even if another opportunity for escape should present itself (unlikely) he would never be able to take advantage of it. Unless he crawled.  
And now, ugh, now. His ribs and arms hurt from where Moriarty’s vicious kicks have connected and left bruises. His back is virtual agony still. His fingers, well, the less said about them the better (it makes him sick even to look at them now and what the hell is he supposed to do about playing his violin, even supposing he will get out of this?) and he seems to be coming down with some virulent form of cold. Dulled though it is, his mind recognises that it is probably something a little more serious than just a cough and sneezes. His symptoms are synonomous with severe flu or even early onset viral pneumonia.  
His brain seizes on this new problem and sets to work with a will. Anything to alleviate that stupefying boredom.  
Now, let’s see. Dry cough, yes. Headache, God yes, he’s had one since a couple of days ago and it hasn’t shifted a bit. Muscle pain and weakness, yes to both. Fever... hmm. Possible. He has been feeling a shaky and sweaty even though the cellar is freezing cold. So far all of these could be symptoms merely of flu. But influenza can lead to viral pneumonia if the conditions are right. Or should he say ‘wrong’. A cold, damp, dark cellar. Virtually a perfect breeding ground for infection. This isn’t encouraging. Preliminary diagnosis of all the facts so far? Bit not good.  
In his head he can hear John’s voice saying those exact words and it makes his chest ache for reasons he is entirely sure are nothing to do with his physical condition. John is a cavity inside him, whenever the doctor isn’t around he feels a nagging void at his very core. He doesn’t think it would be overly-dramatic to say he needs John to truly live. It doesn’t matter if John doesn’t return the admittedly odd romantic feelings Sherlock seems to be harbouring. Just to have John with him fighting crime, having John make him tea he will never drink, taking a trip to Angelo’s where he will fidget and obsess about a recent case and John will patiently eat his meal and try to follow the intricate workings of his mind. Even having John shout at him for playing his violin too loudly or shooting the wall in the early hours of the morning... just, just John.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

‘Wait, tell me again, I don’t quite understand.’  
Dave rolls his eyes at John’s confused expression. ‘I just told you, mate. My girl Josie, she ‘eard from ‘er friend Paula that...’  
John waves an impatient hand. ‘Yes, yes, you can spare me all that. Just skip to what this bloke, what did you say his name was? Lou? Just skip to what he said. Exactly what he said.’ It has taken awhile for Dave to recount his increasingly convoluted story of She told him and then he told this bloke Gav that his mate Tom said... A nightmare, frankly. Tedious. All John is interested in is the part which relates to Sherlock.  
Dave heaves a long-suffering sigh. ‘Right. Well. This bloke Lou apparently told his mate Ian about something that ‘appened to him Sunday night. At least, I think it was Sunday. Prob’ly was. Either Sunday or...’  
John snaps his fingers in front of Dave’s face. ‘Dave! Focus! Sherlock’s life rests on what you can tell us about what Lou saw. Now, please!’  
Dave looks vaguely affronted but seems to gather the urgency behind John’s words. ‘Right. Sorry. Well. Lou was wandering past this house where he likes to doss at sometimes when this, and I’m using his own description ‘ere apparently, this ‘crazy bloke’ comes charging at him outta the dark, right? And this man said to ‘im, “Hey... help me...” and then these big burly geezers come running up and grab ‘im. And this is the part which caught my attention. Lou swears that the bloke screamed, as they were carting ‘im off, “Tell John”. Which immediately made me think of the fact you said Mr ‘Olmes was kidnapped and missing. Added to that, Lou told Ian that this bloke ‘ad dark curly hair and was very tall and very pale. Sure sounds like Mr ‘Olmes to me.’  
John’s heart stutters in his chest slightly. After all he’s been through... this could be it. This could be it. A genuine chance to find Sherlock. There is little doubt that the ‘crazy’ man this Lou is talking about is Sherlock. Tall, pale with dark curly hair? Added to that is the fact he screamed “Tell John”.   
‘Dave,’ he says urgently. ‘You’ve done very well. But did this Lou tell you where the house is? Exactly?’  
Dave beams, a wide grin splitting his face and making him look, for a second, almost handsome.  
‘As a matter of fact he did. But he wants paying for the information, if you get my drift.’ Dave looks like he’d rather not ask for payment to a friend of someone he regards so highly as Sherlock Holmes, but John isn’t bothered. He immediately turns to Mycroft who raises an eyebrow and then pulls out his wallet.  
‘Will two hundred for the immense service you have paid us do?’ Mycroft drawls, holding out four fifty pound notes. Dave gawps. ‘Share it amongst whoever you will. But before I give you the money I will require the address. The exact address.’  
Dave nods and scrambles in his pocket for a scrap of paper. Finding it he hands it straight to John.  
‘Stoney Alley, off Dover Road, Eltham Common, London.’ Mycroft nods in satisfaction and Dave eagerly seizes the notes before speaking again.  
‘Apparently you’ll find it easy. It’s the only big manor house on that road... and the road is tiny.’ He pauses for a second before turning to John. ‘I really ‘ope you find him, Doctor Watson. If you do, give ‘im my regards.’ He shakes John’s hand and then turns to Mycroft. ‘And I reckon a posh geezer like you can ‘elp find him, right?’  
For the first time today John sees a real, genuine smile cross Mycroft’s face. It is admittedly brief but it is there.  
‘Indeed I can. It was... nice to meet you.’  
‘Ditto,’ Dave mutters before vanishing once again out into the main street. John stares at the slightly grimy piece of paper with the address on it as though unable to believe it is real. The Homeless Network had come through after all.   
‘There’s no time to waste,’ Mycroft announces, already on the move. ‘I have to organise a team immediately.’  
‘A team?’ John hastens to keep up.  
‘Yes, John. Get ready to move tonight. We will need the element of surprise and I’d rather do it in darkness. Someone will contact you and I’ll send a car.’  
‘Mycroft!’ John finally catches up to him and catches his sleeve. The older man turns around with a slight expression of annoyance. ‘I want to be with your team. I want to be the one who finds Moriarty.’ John shakes his head suddenly. ‘I want to be the one to capture him.’  
Mycroft steps back a pace and regards John intensely for a moment. John stands his ground, his blue-eyed gaze steadily meeting Mycroft’s dark one. He will not back down on this. John wants to be the man who makes absolutely certain that Moriarty is stopped once and for all. He will take his revenge on the psychopath who dared to hurt Sherlock.  
‘Well, well. I see I was right about you after all, Doctor Watson.’ Mycroft’s reply is cryptic and John is hardly in the mood.  
‘Right about what?’ he bites out.  
‘Right about the fact that you have nerves of steel and a true loyalty to my brother.’  
‘Soldier,’ John reminds him. ‘I am more than capable of handling a gun. And Sherlock is...’ he pauses, still unsure in his own mind how to classify his relationship with the consulting detective, ‘Sherlock is important to me.’ Mycroft twirls his umbrella once but that seems to be all the time he needs to make a decision.  
‘Agreed. I will send you in with my team. But I will take no responsibility if you happen to be injured or die. This will be entirely on your terms. Yes?’  
John shakes Mycroft’s hand. He will not die. He will not be injured, even. He will let Mycroft’s team do what they have to do to secure the area. Meanwhile he will busy himself with teaching Moriarty exactly what happens when you underestimate John Watson.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John stands in front of the mirror feeling almost foolish. He can’t quite decide on the appropriate attire for what is essentially a midnight raid. At the moment he has settled on dark denim loose jeans for ease of movement and a black jumper. He is debating with a navy baseball cap given to him by Harry years ago but has a feeling it just makes him look slightly ridiculous. Attached to his back is a black canvas backpack which contains some basic medical supplies. He has some anti-fever pills, a few antibiotics, a basic splint for Sherlock’s fingers, some bandages, gauze, antisceptic cream and a thermal blanket. The bag is tightly attached to his back and shouldn’t hinder him.  
He tosses the cap to the bed and surveys himself. No, that isn’t bad. Reaching out he tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans and pulls his sweater over it. There. That looks okay. Experimentally he tries a few lunges and rolls, easily slipping back into his military frame of mind. He has to be able to react and move at a second’s notice. It could be the difference between Sherlock living and Sherlock dying.  
His black, scuffed trainers are fine. They won’t show up in the dark and allow his feet to shift around freely. That’s very important.  
He checks his watch. A quarter to eleven. Mycroft should be ringing him any second now to let him know a car is outside. He walks down to the living room and paces in front of the windows anxiously. He is ready. Now he just wants to get going. He can’t help feeling that every single second wasted waiting is a second less Sherlock has to live. Suddenly his mobile rings. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws it anxiously.   
Sarah. For God’s sake.  
‘Hi, Sarah,’ he bites out.  
‘Um... hey. Did I, I did catch you at a bad time or something?’ Her voice is tentative, hesitant. John feels bad for her but can’t help himself snapping.  
‘Yes. Yes you did. I’m sorry, Sarah, but I’m waiting for another call. It’s kind of urgent.’ Without further ado he hangs up and returns to his pacing and staring out of the window. After a couple of minutes have passed his phone bleeps. Sighing he takes it out of his pocket again.  
I’m not sure wat that was about, but I’m guessing it was 2 do with the Sherlock thing. Don’t worry, I understand. But we’re over, John. I cnt deal with this anymore. I need a normal relationship. If you want 2 talk, ring me. Btw, u should tell Sherlock how u feel when u find him. Xxx  
Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. Now his ex-girlfriend of all people is telling him he’s gay and has feelings for Sherlock? Angrily he kicks the wall, hard enough to leave a mark. For a second he feels bad for Mrs Hudson. Her walls have already been abused enough by Sherlock and his boredom.  
Ex-girlfriend. Shouldn’t he feel more upset about this? After all, he and Sarah have been going steady for about four months now. Surely he should feel something other than a sense of... of release?  
His phone rings again. John glances at the display and sees it is Mycroft. At last. He presses the accept button and holds the phone to his ear.  
‘The car’s on its way. Two minutes. It’ll take about half an hour to get to Eltham Common. Once there, meet up with the SWAT team. They’ve already been briefed and know about your additon and your...’ Mycroft pauses, ‘... demand. They will secure the mansion while you go and search for Moriarty. I’ve provided a silencer for you. Good luck. I’ll be watching.’  
The line goes dead. John barely has time to appreciate Mycroft’s sense of dramatics when a dark car pulls into Baker Street and stops at the curb right next to 221B. This is it. He forgoes the coat and merely checks his gun again before running down the stairs and out of the apartment, making sure to close the front door quietly behind him.  
He doesn’t bother attempting to engage the driver in conversation. Instead he sits back and lets his mind wander.  
Sherlock. Why is it always to do with him? Why does every thought he has nowadays centre around the detective? It’s not because he’s been kidnapped. He’s been thinking of Sherlock before that even happened. All the time. Sherlock Holmes invades every aspect of his life. His shopping for the groceries. Example: he checks his list and finds that Sherlock has listed an extraordinary number of ridiculous chemical solutions, presumably for use in his bizarre experiments. His reading habits. Example: he goes to read his book and finds that Sherlock has left a book next to his entitled, A Study of Serial Killers. To his annoyance he picks it up, reads a bit and, irritatingly, he finds it very interesting. He goes to pay the bills. Example: as he does so Sherlock usually ambles over and thrusts a cheque in his direction made out for an unreasonable amount of money. When John enquires as to why Sherlock hasn’t mentioned this before there is a casual, ‘not important’ response. When John feels like going out for dinner. Example: the first person he usually thinks of is not his girlfriend but Sherlock. Even though the man doesn’t eat. Even though he spends the whole meal analyzing the other customers. And God help him if John doesn’t find it fascinating.  
What is this? his brain casually asks. What does this all mean? John is scared to find out. Yes, scared. For all that he is a soldier used to facing death he is scared by this one question. Because the answer may shake and destroy everything he thought he knew about himself. He has accepted the fact that Sherlock is the closest friend he has right now. What he can’t bring himself to accept is that Sherlock could be so much more to him. That Sherlock could mean more to him. Because he is straight, yes. And because he has a girlfriend (well ex-girlfriend) yes. Because Sherlock is married to his work. Because Sherlock is a sociopath... high-functioning, by his own admission, but still incapable of true feeling. What sort of sadist would he have to be to fall in love with someone who is unable to experience true emotion?  
I’m not in love with him, his brain tells him resiliently, obstinately ignoring all evidence to the contrary.  
‘We’re here,’ the driver announces abruptly. John starts out of his daze and automatically glances out of the window. The view is of trees, bushes and country. ‘I was instructed to stop at the top of the road. You need to walk down,’ the driver offers.  
‘Thank you,’ John says, collecting himself. He fumbles in his jeans for his wallet but the driver waves this gesture aside.  
‘It’s all paid for, on Mr Holmes’s account.’  
‘Right.’ John gets out of the car, shoulders his rucksack and shuts the door gently behind him. In the next second the car purrs out of sight into the darkness. This is it. He understands why the car has dropped him off at the top of the road. This way there can be no alerting the guards of the mansion as to what is about to happen.   
John sets off down the road, pleased that his trainers are making virtually no sound as he walks.  
It takes him perhaps five minutes of walking to meet up with the SWAT team. They have clearly been instructed by Mycroft to wait for him as they all turn as he approaches. Through a thick layer of plants and bushes he can see the outline of an enormous manor house. He clenches his fists. In that house, somewhere, is Sherlock.   
He turns his attention to the men and is astounded again at Mycroft’s power. The group is formed of twelve people, each kitted out in dark clothes and a bullet-proof vest. They wear helmets and cradle the latest in gun technology. John throws a glance over to the house. Yes... unless his eyes are deceiving him... there are snipers on the roof. Dark outlines, barely visible against the night sky. He presumes they are on Mycroft’s side otherwise they would have been shooting already. Just what exactly does Mycroft do? How can he have this kind of leverage? Not that John is complaining. Having a crack-shot SWAT team at his back can only be a good thing.  
One man steps forward to meet him. He isn’t much taller than John but his muscles bulge from underneath his dark t-shirt. Like all the others he wears a bullet-proof vest. His hair is dark and cropped in an army fashion.  
‘John Watson?’ he asks.  
‘Yes. That’s right.’ John finds himself switching automatically into army mode. His responses become shorter, more concise and adrenaline starts prickling through his torso, energizing his muscles. He runs his hand over the gun in his waistband as a comforting gesture.   
‘Here.’ The man holds out a vest for him to put on. Swiftly John takes off his pack, pulls the vest over his head, makes sure it is secure and shoulders his bag once more. The man, John presumes he is the head of the team, cocks his head to one side. ‘We’re not used to having outsiders in our team.’ The tone is not aggressive, it is merely slightly interested. John relaxes slightly.  
‘I’m an army-doctor. I served time in Afghanistan before I was invalided home.’  
‘Right. I see why Mr Holmes agreed to have you with us now. I’m Justin. I won’t introduce everyone else, we don’t have time. I understand you are the one to take this James Moriarty, correct?’  
John’s eyes blaze. ‘Correct.’  
The light in his eyes must have been evident to Justin, who nods appreciatively. ‘We’ll secure the area for you. Here, I’ve been told you give you this.’ He holds a silencer out to John who takes it and fits it onto the end of his gun. ‘Best not to give the psycho a chance, eh?’ Justin laughs quietly.  
John takes a step forward. ‘In case I’m not the one to do it... you’ll make sure Sherlock is safe? You’ll make sure that Moriarty doesn’t hurt him? Right?’ He is well aware he is hissing urgently in Justin’s face. The man takes a step backwards and then regards him knowingly.  
‘I get it, John. Our first priority is to ensure Sherlock Holmes’s safety. James Moriarty’s capture is second to that. That is our mission. You don’t need to worry. Nothing is going to happen to Sherlock Holmes on my watch.’ He grins widely at John and John can’t help smiling back. ‘On our watch. Shake.’ He holds out his hand and John happily grasps it. They stare at each other before Justin is abruptly back to business. ‘Right. Now we’ll go in first in groups of...’ he scans his team. ‘Three. Lake, Richardson, Smith... you’ll head in first. Check the perimeter and then enter through the rear. Ryall, Kipps and Freeman, head in after the area’s confirmed and enter through the front door. Peters, Spurdle and Knox, you’ll be covering the back entrance and making your way through that way.” Justin turns to John. ‘Right. Now, myself, Dyton and Johnson here are going to head in last, with you. We’ll make sure everything is clear for you to proceed. Are you happy with that Doctor Watson?’  
John smiles grimly, fingering the gun in his hand. ‘Absolutely.’  
‘Right!’ Justin calls quietly. ‘First group... go.’ Three men detach themselves seamlessly from the others and disappear into the foliage, approaching the mansion. Justin gives them approximately two minutes to make a check of the perimeter. After the time has passed he receives a message in his earpiece.  
‘Perimeter clear, sir. Request permission to enter?’  
‘Granted,’ Justin snaps out and turns. ‘Group two, now.’ The next three men move off into the undergrowth and approach the front door. Justin barely pauses before sending the next lot off to cover the first group on their assault on the rear entrance.   
It is just the four of them left now. John, Justin, Dyton and Johnson. Dyton and Johnson are two forbidding looking men, each towering over John and bulging with muscles. Yet when they finally start moving the two are as sleek as cats, moving with virtually no sound over the gravel of the driveway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The cellar door opens with a bang. Sherlock starts from whatever daze he has been in and narrows his eyes as he sees Moriarty close and lock the door and then start descending the steps.  
‘Why bother with the lock?’ Sherlock rasps, internally cursing the pain in his throat. ‘I’m not going anywhere, believe me.’  
‘Just want to make sure we’re not, disturbed, my dear,’ Moriarty replies with a sly grin. He paces towards Sherlock with a smile which reminds Sherlock uncomfortably of a wolf. He backs away as much as he can manage. Some part of his brain registers that this is what Moriarty has been after all this time. There is no escaping it. But Goddamnit if he won’t try.  
Sure enough the smaller man reaches him and bends to his knees. Reaching out a hand he trails his fingers along the bruises which litter Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock inhales sharply and tries not to show how uncomfortable the touch makes him.  
‘Oh, dear.’ Moriarty pulls a face at Sherlock. ‘I’m afraid I made rather a mess of you, didn’t I? But you see, I was so angry.’ Throwing his head back Moriarty laughs coldly. ‘But on the other hand... I was so proud of you! I was rather hoping you would attempt an escape at some point. To be absolutely honest, I wasn’t sure how you’d do it. Now I know. A safety pin in your coat... I presume that’s why you asked me for it?... Brilliant! Now I know for sure that I picked a worthy adversary! And it will make my conquest of you so...’ Moriarty’s face scrunches as he searches for the word, ‘... rewarding.’  
‘You’re sick,’ Sherlock spits with all the venom he can manage. Moriarty smiles.  
‘Oh. You really think you’re the first person to tell me that?’ He switches into song. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me!’  
Without warning he lashes out and his fist connects hard with Sherlock’s temple. The force of the blow knocks Sherlock sideways and his head crashes hard against the stone floor. Dizziness. Pain. Everything has gone blurry. Sherlock raises his head and shakes it weakly as if trying to dislodge the disorder from it.  
‘It’s no good, Sherlock,’ Moriarty says, moving so that he is almost lying on top of the consulting detective. ‘I’m going to do what I like with you. And there is nothing you can do to stop it. Ohhh... I’m going to enjoy this. After all, I’ve deferred the pleasure for such a long time. You can’t say I didn’t give your pet a chance to find you.’ Sherlock can feel Moriarty’s insistent arousal pressing against his leg and he attempts, weakly, to throw the other man off him.  
‘No...’ Sherlock mutters. It’s the only word his brain can form at that minute. His head is still ringing from the blow and he can feel blood seeping out of a fresh wound on his temple.  
‘Yess,’ Moriarty hisses and busies himself with unbuttoning Sherlock’s jeans.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Justin and the other two go through the door ahead of John. They sweep around the entrance hall, making sure there is nobody there, and then split up. Justin beckons John inside.  
‘We’ll cover the ground floor. Check wherever you think he might be.’ Justin’s voice betrays a hint of doubt. ‘This place is huge.’  
Left on his own, John grasps his gun tighter and moves towards a door to his right. He presses himself against the doorframe and kicks the door open with his right leg. Moving swiftly he swings into the doorway, ready to take fire at anything. There is a movement behind the door and to his left. John crouches and waits. Soon enough a guard pokes his head around the door. He catches sight of John kneeling there, blazing eyed, and he blinks in astonishment. Before he can make a move to grab his gun John raises his, takes aim, and fires. There is a very muted sound and the guard is falling, a hole in the centre of his forehead which is now starting to leak blood. Despite the fact the man in front of him was on Moriarty’s payroll and probably somewhat instrumental in Sherlock’s torture, John can’t stop a stab of guilt. Taking human life will never come totally easy to him and he should have to accept that.  
Ignoring the body as much as he can, John secures the rest of the room. There is nobody else there. The man he has just... killed... had obviously been watching television as a set is on in the corner and there is a sofa just in front of it.  
Moving swiftly he backs out and re-enters the hallway. There are a couple of rooms to his right and then a door at the very end of the corridor. He makes a decision. He will tackle the rooms on the right and then the door at the end. If none offers a result he will locate Justin and assist him in any way he can.  
Moving fast he approaches the next door on the right and flattens himself against the wall, repeating the trick of opening the door with his foot. He steps inside once he is sure he isn’t going to get shot at.   
He recognises this room. The white plasterboard which covers the windows... the video camera which still stands near the end... it is an obvious giveaway. This is the room where Sherlock was filmed being tortured. For a second John stands, staring at the bloodstains still evident on the pristine white, tiled floor. Evidence of Sherlock’s agony. And it serves to refuel his anger and his desire for vengeance.  
He backs out and approaches the last door on the right. The next will be the one opposite the front door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

‘I know you want this, Sherlock,’ Moriarty pants as he works Sherlock’s jeans down his legs and past his knees. ‘You and me are the same. We’re both addicted to power... to being clever. We belong together.’  
‘Get... off...’ Sherlock rasps as he twists beneath the pressure of Moriarty’s body. ‘Don’t you dare...’  
‘Come, now, Sherlock. I’m beginning to feel insulted. Don’t you feel me wanting you?’ As if to re-enforce his point, Moriarty bucks against Sherlock, pressing his erection insistently against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock swallows a moan of disgust.  
In response Moriarty grasps hold of Sherlock’s boxers and rips them down. Sherlock gasps as the cold air hits his flesh. Moriarty snarls gleefully.  
‘So perfect, Sherlock darling. As I always knew you would be. And now... we’ll be together. And I’ll have ruined you.’ His face twists into an ugly grimace as he caresses Sherlock’s scarred back and then runs his hands down to Sherlock’s buttocks.  
Beneath him Sherlock starts to thrash. It is using all the energy he has left to give but he will not allow Moriarty to do this to him. Forget the fact he is a virgin. Forget the fact he has wanted nobody to do this to him but John. He just feels so damned helpless. He would fight more if he could, but his limbs don’t seem to be obeying his brain. He feels drained and listless.  
He is almost outside his own body when he feels the finger start to circle that most private of places. He groans as Moriarty probes.  
Pretend it’s John. Pretend it’s John. Pretend it’s John.  
It almost works. Until Moriarty speaks again. ‘Oh, you’re so perfect Sherlock. Like I always knew you would be...’ A crashing sound makes him glance up, irritably. ‘Those damn guards. Always so careless.’ He returns his attention to Sherlock and for the first time in his life Sherlock wishes his brain would shut down. The finger is pressing more insistently. He is still resisting but it seems more like token resistance. His mind is still alert enough to recognise that in his current weakened state he has absolutely no chance of fighting Moriarty off. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

The last door on the right is empty. It seems to be a study of sorts with an old-fashioned desk near the window and a couple of sofas in the centre. Nobody there. Definitely no Sherlock. Somewhere upstairs John hears something smashing. He hopes it is an ornament or something but it sounds to him like a window and he has visions of one of Moriarty’s guards launching Justin or one his team through the glass. John leaves the room and sidles closer to the last door. If this isn’t the one he will give up on finding Sherlock himself and join Justin and the rest of the SWAT team. Repositioning his grasp on his gun, and raising it to shoulder height, John kicks open the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Moriarty is just preparing for the pleasure of breaching Sherlock when the door to the cellar flies open.


	11. A Showdown

Chapter Eleven

A Showdown

Time is a tableau. Frozen in that one second which is all John Watson needs to take in the situation in front of him.  
The cellar is dimly lit by a filthy bare lampbulb. The cellar isn’t particularly large and the only furniture in it are the chains which currently hold Sherlock captive. The man in question is lying on his front with his face pressed sideways against the undoubtedly cold stone-tiled floor. He is naked apart from his jeans and boxers which have been pushed down to below his knees. He is shivering uncontrollably and his eyes are firmly shut. They have not opened even upon hearing the crash of the door flying inwards due to John’s kick. Moriarty is holding him down and half-leaning upon the detective as if to more firmly anchor him to the ground. It is evident he had been lying flush against the detective’s injured back, but he has now raised himself half-upright, an expression of genuine, shocked astonishment on his face as he regards John standing in the doorway. His arousal is obvious to John from his vantage point and he doesn’t need to notice the fact that Moriarty’s left hand is dangerously close to Sherlock’s buttocks to know what he has just interrupted.  
Thank Christ he thinks numbly as a wash of molten anger surges through his veins. He sees Moriarty start to slowly reach into his jacket pocket and reacts without thinking, automatically switching back into soldier mode.  
He flies down the steps faster than a blink, and just as Moriarty is scrabbling for his gun, a look of panic now suffusing his features, John reaches him. Halting suddenly, but using the force of his charge, he spins on his left foot around in a circle. As he does so he raises his right leg to the height of his hip. This means his foot is exactly level with Moriarty’s head and in a flash John’s foot has connected solidly with the side of Moriarty’s skull. The effect is instantaneous. The blow is so forceful that it almost knocks Moriarty to the other side of the cellar – but the most important thing for John is that it gets him the hell away from Sherlock. Added to that, he doesn’t want to use his gun yet. He wants to make sure that Moriarty suffers.  
Moriarty lies stunned for a few seconds on the ground and then slowly gets to his feet, facing John all the while. He licks experimentally at the blood which has burst from his lip as it connected with the unyielding floor and then smiles and holds his hands out wide.  
‘Come now, John... let’s not be hasty.’ John blinks, wondering how on earth the man has the nerve to make that sort of remark and as his attention is diverted for that second, Moriarty makes his move, plunging his hand swiftly into his jacket to retrieve his gun. John’s lightning-fast reactions born of his training save his life in that moment. As Moriarty levels the gun at him he dives sideways and rolls, much like his practice earlier that evening in his bedroom.  
The bullet whines past him, missing him by inches, Jesus – he can feel it whistle past his body and strikes the opposite wall, ricochets off and finally manages to earth itself in the solid wood of the cellar door. John recovers faster than Moriarty and lets a bullet fly himself. His aim is perfect. It hits Moriarty in the wrist and the gun drops out of the psychopath’s hand as he howls painfully, angrily and clutches at the wound with his fingers, blood leaking out from between them. A shot like that, fired at such close range, should have blown his hand from his body, but it seems like Moriarty is lucky. Although his wrist is evidently severely damaged it is still connected to his body... but barely.  
‘I will annihilate you!’ Moriarty hisses, his face contorting monstrously with hatred, and for a second John feels a shiver run down his spine. This soon disappears as Moriarty turns his head towards the open cellar door and shouts,  
‘Hunter! Davies!’ When he does that, John can’t help himself. He laughs, a cold mirthless sound, much unlike his usual warm-hearted chuckle. Moriarty’s head whips round like a snake to look at John again. ‘Why are you laughing, pet? I wouldn’t want to be you when they get here.’  
John shifts his feet to gain a steadier position and stops laughing abruptly. He gazes steadily at Moriarty.  
‘They’re not coming, James. Nobody’s coming to help you.’  
‘And how do you know that?’ Moriarty spits.  
‘Because an entire, highly-trained, SWAT team are currently making their way through this house eliminating all your guards. I shot one myself before I arrived here. And the snipers on the roof are more than likely to stop anybody trying to escape.’  
Moriarty’s face writhes with panic, fury and disbelief. ‘You’re lying to me! How is that possible?’  
John cocks his head to the side and grins. ‘Did you never think to investigate Sherlock’s family? No? Thought not. If you had, you might just be in a stronger position. They’re fairly influential, you know, in certain circles, and Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes, is most displeased with you.’ The smile fades from John’s face as he stares down Moriarty. ‘As am I. And unlike Mycroft, at this moment in time, I am able to act on my displeasure.’ Without further pause he lowers his gun and fires for a second time at the criminal. This shot doesn’t miss either.  
Moriarty sinks to the ground with another anguished howl of pain, clutching at his right kneecap with his uninjured wrist. John nods in satisfaction as he regards Moriarty. ‘One of the ways to effectively immobilise somebody without killing them. Came in very useful when I was in service.’  
‘You...!’ For the first time words seem to fail Moriarty. John smiles grimly.   
‘Me, James. I bet you’re regretting ever starting this little game now. Because I can tell you’re such a sore loser.’ Having had enough of the conversation for the meantime John stalks towards the psychopath and swings the butt of his gun at the side of Moriarty’s skull. The man drops like a stone and finally lies quiet.  
John takes a few moments to breathe and get himself back under control. Back to Doctor John Watson, GP.  
‘John?’   
The call is quiet and hoarse. If John’s blood had still been thundering through his ears, the way it had been a few moments ago, he would never have heard it. Now it pierces him like a keenly honed knife. The only voice in the world ever able to stop him in his tracks.   
Swiftly he spins around and in a second he is at Sherlock’s side. The man’s eyes are open now and they regard him hazily, that brilliant silver gaze is dimmed slightly.  
‘John?’  
John smooths the sweat-dampened curls away from Sherlock’s forehead and allows his hand to rest there a moment, enabling Sherlock to feel his touch.  
‘It’s okay Sherlock. I’m right here.’  
‘You’re here? But... how? You... Moriarty was just... and then...’ John tries not to worry about Sherlock’s disjointed sentences. By the feel of his brow he is running a fairly high fever and John would be right to be anxious about the possiblity of viral pneumonia.  
‘Don’t worry about talking now, Sherlock. You’re safe now, that’s all that matters.’ For a moment Sherlock’s eyes become brighter and a little more lucid.  
‘Moriarty? Is he...?’  
‘Unconscious, currently. And...’ John flicks his eyes over casually to examine the crumpled man in the opposite corner. ‘... bleeding fairly heavily. Now, let’s get you sorted, shall we?’ Sherlock’s injuries dash through John’s mind swiftly and he tries to focus on which one he should address first. That’s easy. The position Sherlock and Moriarty were in bursts to the forefront of his mind. This isn’t going to be straightforward, and he steels himself for what he has to do.  
Wanting to involve Sherlock as little as possible while he still can, John examines the backs of Sherlock’s thighs and then forcefully moves his gaze upwards to Sherlock’s buttocks. He cannot see any untoward bruising or bleeding but it is imperative to make sure.  
‘Sherlock?’ The detective seems to have dozed out again. ‘Sherlock! Wake up, I need to talk to you.’  
Sherlock opens his eyes blearily and, after a few seconds of attempting to locate John’s voice, finally that luminous mercury gaze focuses on him.   
‘Sherlock, this is going to be hard for you, so I’ll just be blunt about it. Did Moriarty succeed in forcing himself on you?’  
The detective gives a shudder and appears to cringe inwards on himself a little. John pushes on, knowing that this sort of question will be easier for Sherlock to handle in his obviously diconnected state. Once he comes back down to reality it is likely his mind will reject brutally any memory of what might have happened.  
‘No.’  
The answer is surprisingly clear and strong and John rolls his eyes slightly. He is barely conscious and still Sherlock’s mind is functioning better than some people’s do on an ordinary day.  
‘You’re sure?’ he presses, hating himself, but wanting to make absolutely certain.  
‘Yes. He was... about to, but... you stopped...’  
Thank Christ! John’s heart bursts out. If Sherlock had been abused in that way, John isn’t entirely sure he would be able to stop himself from storming over to the psychopath, beating him until he cannot remember his own name, and then shooting him, first in the crotch and then in the head.  
‘Okay. Fine. You just, relax. Focus on me, Sherlock. I’m right here.’ He hears the detective’s shallow, raspy breathing ease a little bit and busies himself with what needs to be done. First and foremost he pulls Sherlock’s boxers and jeans back up and fastens the buttons and zipper. Now that he is sure there is nothing to worry about on Sherlock’s lower body he can at least restore the detective’s dignity for when Justin and the rest of the team find them. Which reminds him...  
Pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s frozen temple (just friendly concern) and reassuring him that he will be right back, he darts up to the doorway of the cellar and shouts aloud.  
‘Justin!’  
Soon enough the man arrives at the foot of the stairs.  
‘Have you found him?’ Justin asks, concern obvious on his face.  
‘Yes. He’s down there, I’m taking care of him,’ John replies, jerking his thumb backwards towards the cellar. ‘I need you, or one of your team, to call an ambulance.’  
‘Already done. A couple of my men need attention, it’ll be here in twenty minutes tops.’  
‘Great, thanks Justin.’ John moves to go back down and then a thought occurs to him. ‘Were there any...?’ He leaves the question unfinished, sure that Justin knows what he means.  
The other man’s face grows heavy with the sorrow that John now realises has been hiding just beneath the surface.  
‘Yeah,’ he responds dimly. ‘Two. Dyton and Ryall.’  
‘I’m so sorry,’ John says, knowing it’s futile, nothing he can say will make this easier for Justin. The other man shrugs heavily.  
‘They knew what they were doing. And it’s the way they would have wanted to go... you know? In the thick of things, in the middle of the action.’  
‘Of course. Well, I’d better be getting back to Sherlock.’ John turns to descend the steps again before he is hailed by Justin.  
‘Wait, is Moriarty down there too?’  
John nods grimly and then speaks. ‘Yes. But I’d rather deal with him alone, if you don’t mind.’  
Justin pauses for a second and then nods. ‘Okay. Technically speaking this whole operation doesn’t exist and has never happened so... do what you think is right, John. Okay? Carte Blanche was Mr Holmes’s description of it.’  
‘Sure.’  
John returns to Sherlock and resumes his inspection of Sherlock’s wounds. Carefully, ever so gently, he wraps his arms around the detective’s torso and pulls him into a sitting position so that his side is resting against John’s chest. To his slight surprise the lashes on Sherlock’s slender back have been stitched and seem to have been treated with something due to the fact that no infection appears to have set in. To be on the safe side John slathers a couple of the more serious gashes with the antisceptic cream he has in his bag, trying to ignore Sherlock’s fairly weak protestations of pain as he does so. Next he applies the gauze to the deepest lashes and then winds Sherlock’s chest with bandage so the wounds are at least covered and protected from the open air.  
Next he turns his attention to Sherlock’s fingers, carefully picking up the wrist and examining them from every angle. They both look like an ugly breaks, to be sure, but they should heal well. Good news for Sherlock’s violin practice at least. John feels affection flood through him. That damn violin. Funny to think that kind of the cause of all the fighting between them before this happened. Now he misses it passionately. Taking every care he splints the fingers basically. They will probably be rebroken and set again in the hospital but he wants to do everything he can in the meantime to make Sherlock more comfortable. The wound on Sherlock’s head is ugly but doesn’t present any immediate problem. John wipes it clean with a bit of spare bandage and then covers it in cream just to make absolutely sure. As an extra precaution he winds some bandage around it. Smiling slightly he tilts his head and eyes Sherlock with the bandage swathed around his forehead, the dark curls falling forwards over it.  
‘What’s funny?’ With a jolt he sees that Sherlock is gazing at him, those eyes wide open and focussed upon his face. He smiles wryly, unable and unwilling to express his joy that Sherlock is awake and talking to him halfway normally.  
‘It’s just... with the bandage, you look a little like Pudsey the bear.’  
Sherlock frowns and then a slight smile twists his lips. ‘I’m honoured,’ he croaks before lapsing into silence. John tightens his grip around Sherlock’s shoulder.  
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asks gently.   
Sherlock is silent. John knows that the worst thing to do at this minute is to pressure him, so he remains quiet as well, merely rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder in small concentric circles as if to subconsciously remind the detective that he is still there and ready to listen whenever Sherlock is ready.  
‘I... don’t know.’ The words seem like they are torn from Sherlock’s mouth forcibly and John knows how much it must have cost him to say. I don’t know. When did you ever hear that from Sherlock’s mouth?  
Remembering something suddenly John turns away and reaches for his bag, unpacking the thermal blanket. Sherlock is shivering against him and John can’t believe he forgot to make sure, above all, that Sherlock starts to warm up.  
As he turns back to the detective, blanket in hand, he sees that tears have started to drip down Sherlock’s face. He isn’t crying noisily or violently but somehow this silent surrender to sorrow is almost more than John can take.  
‘I-I’m sorry, John,’ Sherlock mutters, rubbing frantically at the tears with his good hand. ‘It’s just... I didn’t think I’d see you again. You...’ he gazes at John and that look of molten silver, tears shimmering, almost makes John’s heart implode, ‘... you came. After everything, you c-came.’  
‘Of course I did. How could I not?’ John responds simply, following his instincts and drying the tears from Sherlock’s thin cheeks with his sleeve. Which gives him an idea.  
‘Most people wouldn’t have,’ Sherlock mutters dully. John takes a breath.  
‘I’m not most people. Hold on, try and stay upright Sherlock, if you can.’ He removes Sherlock from his body and is pleased to see that the younger man stays upright, although his shoulders slump and his head droops slightly.  
Swiftly John removes his bullet-proof vest, throws it to the side, and draws his thick black jumper over his head.  
‘Here, I’ll be as gentle as I can.’ Sherlock blinks but does not resist as John carefully pulls the neckhole over his head, attempting not to dislodge the bandage swathing Sherlock’s forehead as he does so. After a couple more minutes he has successfully managed to get the jumper on properly with only a few grunts of pain from Sherlock as despite John’s best efforts his broken fingers knock against the material. John can’t help but notice how the jumper bags on Sherlock’s emaciated frame whereas on him it fits like a second skin.   
‘Sherlock, how long is it since you had anything to eat?’   
‘Don’t know. Don’t care,’ Sherlock mutters, his head falling forwards onto John’s shoulder.  
‘Sherlock you have to answer me. When did you last eat? I’m worried you’re severely malnourished.’  
‘Thursday... maybe. No. Friday.’ Sherlock presses himself deeper onto John’s shoulder. ‘I... I can’t remember. Doesn’t matter. Irrelevant.’  
‘Jesus. It’s not irrelevant Sherlock, it’s...’ John stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He doesn’t want to get into this again, not now, not in this situation. They do have time to waste with bickering. Despite the seeming normality of Sherlock’s responses (well, normal for him anyway) John is seriously worried that he is merely continuing to distance himself from reality. This is completely understandable. The reality of what happened to Sherlock in the past few days is horrific. But Sherlock needs to face it and accept it.   
‘How... touching.’ The voice is quiet and weak, but still possesses a surprising amount of spite. John twists his head to look at Moriarty, who is drawing himself up to a sitting position. The criminal is clearly in an enormous amount of pain. His face is deathly white, beads of sweat are standing out on his brow and he is trembling violently. Yet his pitch brown eyes are sparking with hatred and vitriol.   
Nobody should be able to speak after what I did to him... what on earth is he? Does he have some vengeful spirit winding his heart, allowing it to keep beating despite what is done to him? Will he ever stop?  
No. John knows that is the answer. If Moriarty survives tonight and is arrested and taken away, he and Sherlock will never be safe from him again. The mind of the true psychopath is horribly clever and cunning. Moriarty can be charming. He can act as proven by his little stint pretending to be Jim from IT. Not even Sherlock was able to detect anything false or wrong about him. John imagines it would be very easy for Moriarty to get out of his jail cell early on account of good behaviour. Oh yes, John can see it now. The board sitting regarding the criminal with sympathy as his face crumples with remorse.  
I’m so sorry. I truly don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not that person anymore. I’ve changed. I’m tortured by what I put that poor man through... I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself...  
In the distance John can hear the wail of ambulance sirens screaming through the silent night. Not that far away. They will be here in about five minutes. Ten, max. Once here the decision will be made for him. Moriarty will be taken away along with Sherlock... No. Unthinkable. Sherlock is going to have a hard enough time recovering from this without the added fear of having to worry whether Moriarty will surface at any given moment, hellbent on exacting his revenge. And as much as Sherlock would protest it John knows that the detective can feel fear. The look in his eyes when he’d seen John at the pool for the first time told him that quite clearly. How on earth can Sherlock ever be expected to fully recover with Moriarty an ever present threat?  
John makes his decision. Perhaps it was the only one he could make and he was merely wasting time analyzing himself and his morals. His morals are strong, of course they are, isn’t he a doctor? but James Moriarty is his blind spot. In John’s mind, Moriarty created his own death warrant the second he kidnapped Sherlock and signed it the moment the first harm was inflicted on the detective.   
Slowly John disentangles himself from Sherlock, who has become almost limpet-like and seems to be attempting to wind himself around John, and gets to his feet, reaching for his gun as he does so. Slowly he walks across the cellar and slowly he raises his gun to Moriarty’s head. The psychopath’s breathing becomes slightly faster but his eyes are calm as he raises his gaze to meet John’s.  
‘Are you going to kill me, John Watson?’ he asks quietly.  
John glances back at Sherlock who is still awake and watching the scene unfold with wide eyes.   
‘You should know the answer to that. After all... I’m the only one who isn’t a genius in this room at the moment.’  
Moriarty chuckles and then his face contorts with pain as though the movement has hurt him somewhat. John estimates that it made his leg with the smashed kneecap move and he is pleased. At the moment all he wants to do is stamp on that kneecap and then shoot Moriarty between the eyes, but no. He has to keep his cool.  
‘True enough. I have to say though, I didn’t expect any of this. The midnight raid, the SWAT team, getting rid of my guards... very clever.’  
‘Thank you,’ John says curtly.   
‘Not many people surprise me. There is something rather singular about you, John Watson. I’m beginning to see why dear Sherlock likes to have you around so much. And speaking of Sherlock... I have a little gift for you.’ Moriarty’s breathing is shallow and raspy but he manages to summon up enough energy to reach into his jacket pocket. Even though he knows Moriarty doesn’t have a weapon on him anymore, John still tenses, the muscles in his arms bunching as he grips his gun a little tighter. Moriarty rolls his eyes and finally manages to withdraw whatever he was looking for.  
John blinks, confused. Moriarty is extending, in his good hand, what looks like a...  
‘Is that a notebook?’ John asks.   
‘It is. A very special notebook. In fact, it is Sherlock’s journal.’  
‘No!’ The cry is shaky and John’s head whips back around to look at Sherlock. The detective seems to have made an attempt to stand up but has failed. John is startled by the look in Sherlock’s eyes. The gray irises have contracted with panic and his icy face is flushed with sudden colour.  
‘Sherlock’s journal?’ John repeats, more confused than ever. ‘But Sherlock doesn’t keep a journal.’  
Moriarty winks slyly. ‘He keeps it secret. But nothing can be kept from me. I know everything. And I think you should too.’  
‘No... John, don’t take it! He’s, he’s lying...’ Sherlock coughs harshly as his raised voice proves too much for his delicate vocal chords. John glances back to him and then looks at Moriarty once more. Lying to him. But why on earth would Moriarty lie about something as trivial as Sherlock’s journal?  
Reaching out a hand John takes the book from Moriarty’s hand and examines it. Black leather, cracked in places. In the bottom right hand corner there are initials in embossed golden lettering.  
S.H.  
John puts it in his jeans pocket and levels his gun once more at the pyschopath.   
‘I’m done with talking James. We both know what is going to happen. I cannot allow you to live. I won’t put Sherlock through that kind of torment. And I know you will make it your life’s mission to exact revenge on us both if you survive.’  
Moriarty closes his eyes. ‘Again, I cannot deny it. I’m not forgiving by nature and you interrupted me just as things were about to get... exciting.’ He licks his lips and John feels a wave of disgust course through him. When he thinks of what Moriarty was about to do to his best friend...  
‘I feel sorry for you Moriarty. What a sad life you must have lived. I would say I am sorry for what I am about to do, but I’m not. I feel nothing whatsoever.’  
John pulls the trigger and turns away from the heap of flesh and bone which was once James Moriarty. The evil spirit quelled forever. He hears Sherlock’s gasp as the shot is fired and is back by his friend’s side at once.   
Returning to his duties he grips the thermal blanket and draws it over Sherlock’s shoulders. The younger man is agitated, John can tell by the accelerated breathing and Sherlock’s darting eyes.  
‘What’s wrong, Sherlock? Are you in pain?’  
‘Give me the journal, John. You must give me that journal,’ Sherlock pants harshly.  
‘I’ll give it to you later. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe if it means that much to you.’  
‘You don’t understand... promise me you won’t read it.’ John is silent for a second and suddenly Sherlock is grasping at his shoulder with his good hand with a surprising strength given his weak state. ‘Promise me!’  
Taken aback John blinks. ‘Okay, fine. I won’t read it. Jesus, Sherlock.’  
‘Good. Good... that’s... good.’ He mumbles to himself for a couple more seconds before his eyes flicker shut. ‘I’m very tired, John. Very tired. I think I’ll just...’ His eyes drift shut. John shakes him slightly.  
‘Sherlock? Try and keep awake for me, okay? The ambulance is almost here.’ In fact he can hear it now, the crunch of gravel as it pulls up in front of the door and the urgent footsteps of the paramedics. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

It hardly takes any time at all. There are in fact two ambulances not just the one, a detail which John is sure Sherlock would have picked up on if he had been in full control of his mental faculties. As it is the detective is almost completely out of it. He has an oxygen mask strapped to his face, is loaded onto a stretcher and taken out of the cellar and into the night air. John reflects briefly that he never wants to see Sherlock in this situation again. Limp, pale and far too lifeless. To see the detective so helpless, so hurt and vulnerable makes him want to hit something. He follows the stretcher bearing Sherlock outside, rubbing his bare arms, a little cold now that he is without a jumper.   
A sound from the doorway makes him turn. Two more stretchers are being carried out by somber looking paramedics. The figures on them are covered with sheets. John knows that this is Ryall and Dyton and a lump forms in his throat. The two men didn’t deserve to die tonight, they shouldn’t have died. Again John feels a pointless anger at Moriarty, anger which now has nowhere to direct itself as the psychopath is very much deceased. He is being carried out now, on the third stretcher, and John forces himself to turn away.   
He begs to be allowed to ride in the first ambulance containing Sherlock and the couple of injured SWAT team members but is gently and firmly denied. Justin wanders up.  
‘The boss is sending some cars to pick us up... they’ll take you straight to the hospital if you want. I’ll be going as well. I want to be there for Kipps and Richardson.’  
‘Of course.’ John nods tiredly. ‘Thanks for everything, Justin. I mean it.’  
Justin laughs and grins at John. ‘Hey. Just doing my job. And I count it an honour to be involved in getting rid of scum like James Moriarty. I found out about some of the stuff he did in my research for tonight.’ He shakes his head, disgust obvious all over his features. ‘He deserved what he got.’ Justin doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and then speaks again. ‘And it looks like Sherlock will be okay, so all in all I consider this a good result. A very good result.’ He claps a hand on John’s shoulder and smiles. ‘Cars’ll be here in about ten minutes.’ He squeezes John’s shoulder and then wanders away to talk with the remaining members of his team who are clustered around the mansion’s main entrance.   
John stays where he is, alone for the minute with his thoughts. A good result. Yes. But it is almost as though his brain cannot bring itself to believe it. To believe that things could be that simple. That Moriarty is truly dead, unable to hurt himself or Sherlock any more. That Sherlock will recover and be as good as new (or almost). Yet something still feels off. Something is nagging at him.  
Slowly he reaches a hand into his jeans pocket and draws out the notebook. It looks unassuming and John traces a finger down its worn surface. How did he never notice Sherlock kept a journal? And why is he surprised? After all, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. But what on earth is written in it which Sherlock so desperately doesn’t want him to know? He would be lying if he said the book in his hand didn’t make him curious, very curious. But he’d promised Sherlock. Reading the journal would be tantamount to abusing his flatmate’s hard-earned trust. Yes. But still John doesn’t put the notebook back in his pocket.


	12. Recovery

Chapter Twelve

Recovery

A Day Later

John rubs his eyes tiredly as he gazes into the depths of his almost empty coffee cup. He doesn’t usually like coffee but after being told repeatedly by both Lestrade and Mycroft that he looks like death, he figures a caffeine boost would jolt his energy levels. This hospital coffee does nothing to improve his opinion of the beverage. Even after tipping in four sugars it still tastes bitter and foul. And yet, he does feel a little more energetic, so something must be working. Although he suspects it is probably the high from the sheer amount of sugar he has added and not the actual coffee itself.  
Twenty-four-hours. That’s how long he has been here, in this small square room. The walls are carefully painted a neutral beige. There is a bed and a couple of plastic chairs. Some sort of arty poster has been pinned onto the wall opposite John’s seat, the only concession to actual colour or personality the room offers.  
Sherlock is fast asleep. He has spent most of the time he has been here asleep. It’s really not that surprising, John thinks, as the man has spent much of the previous week being tortured and deprived of any sort of rest. His body has gone on strike, as it were, and now all he is waiting for are the workers to decide that their work is not so bad after all and resume as usual.  
John reaches out and brushes a tendril of dark hair away from Sherlock’s forehead. A simple yet intimate gesture that he knew he probably would never repeat if Sherlock had been awake. The man doesn’t like physical contact... he can’t understand its purpose. He had allowed John to reassure him the previous night but he was half delirious at the time. Anybody, even a sociopath, would probably want physical comfort in that sort of situtation. Idly John’s hand strays to the notebook which is still firmly lodged in his pocket and then draws his hand away.  
He promised. He promised Sherlock he wouldn’t read it. And he won’t. To have the trust of Sherlock Holmes is an amazing thing, a powerful thing. Heady, almost. John Watson isn’t about to jeopardize that.   
Not to say he hasn’t been wondering about what could possibly be so secret that Sherlock would actually almost scream at him not to read it. Could it be that Donovan and Anderson were right all this time? That Sherlock has, in the past, got so bored that he puts the bodies there for the police to find? John had rejected that idea almost as soon as it had crossed his mind and felt abominably guilty for even thinking it. Of course not. He knows Sherlock, knows him perhaps almost better than anybody. He may be unusual and hard to work out sometimes, but he most definitely is not a killer. So... that theory’s out then. John struggles to think of what else Sherlock could possibly be so ashamed of.  
Perhaps, perhaps Sherlock is conducting some sort of large, elaborate experiment with John as the subject. That would be just like him, actually. To investigate elements of John’s personality and then record them for his own purposes. A small smile twists John’s lips. He knows he should feel angry at the possibility of his being Sherlock’s guinea pig. But he doesn’t. It’s just another part of the detective’s odd personality that he accepts and even embraces.  
Sherlock doesn’t look like he is going to wake up anytime soon. John takes a look at his watch. Two thirty in the morning. No wonder he’s tired. Now he is certain that Sherlock is going to be fine and isn’t in any danger he feels like he might take a little walk outside the hospital for some fresh air.   
Yawning and stretching he gets out of his chair and makes his way into the corridor. While he is attempting to make his way to the exit, he bumps into Justin who is also clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee. Justin looks almost as tired as John but he smiles when he catches sight of him.  
‘John! Hey... how’s Sherlock doing?’  
John scratches his nose and shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he debates how to answer the question. ‘He’s okay, physically at least. He’s sleeping most of the time. Moriarty kept him awake pretty much twenty four seven and his body had almost shut down. He also needs a drip to give him back the nutrients he lost, he was pretty malnourished. Other than that, he’s fine.’  
Justin smiles sadly and tilts his head. ‘I’m not stupid, John. You’re worried about his mental state. Aren’t you.’  
It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yes, I am. He went through a lot and nobody, not even Sherlock, can come out of that sort of situation unscathed.’ John frowns and thinks for a second. ‘In fact, especially not Sherlock. His mind took a battering and he’s going to find that very difficult to deal with, if I know him.’  
Glancing at Justin, John sees that he suddenly looks very uncomfortable. ‘What is it?’  
‘It’s just... Moriarty didn’t do anything, did he? To Sherlock? It’s just that when I read the reports on his previous... games... he seemed very keen on, abusing any male victims he happened to have...’ Justin’s voice trails off into nothing and he keeps his eyes on the floor. John knows exactly what he is talking about, and knows exactly why it is so difficult to enunciate.  
‘No. He didn’t. I got there just in time. There’s no doubt, though. He would have. It makes me sick.’  
Justin glances at John. The doctor’s normally cheerful rounded face has taken on a haunted look and his skin has turned the colour of milk. Justin reaches out and clasps a hand on John’s shoulder.  
‘He’ll be okay, John. With someone like you taking care of him, there’s no way he won’t be. I mean, you guys are involved, yeah?’  
John freezes and then slowly raises his gaze to meet Justin’s. ‘Involved?’  
‘I mean, he’s your boyfriend, right?’ Mistaking the look on John’s face, Justin laughs. ‘Hey... I’m not trying to tread on your turf. I mean, I’m straight. All I’m saying is that the guy is gorgeous. Even I can see that. You’re very lucky.’  
John gasps in astonishment. ‘No! No... it’s... we’re not, we’re not involved. I’m straight, Justin. I have... I had a girlfriend. Sarah.’  
John would have found Justin’s look of abject bewilderment amusing under different circumstances.  
‘Oh! Jesus, I’m sorry! I just figured...’  
John sighs. ‘Yeah. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.’ Honestly, what was it about his and Sherlock’s relationship that made people automatically assume they were a couple? Surely it wasn’t that unheard of for two guys to be good friends and share a flat together?  
Justin is still looking uncomfortable. ‘I really am sorry, John. It’s just, seeing you together...’ he trails off again and then changes to a completely different tack. ‘Kipps and Richardson are doing well. Both out of intensive care now and breathing on their own, so that’s...’ he takes a deep breath, ‘... that’s very good. I don’t think I could have handled losing more men. It was hard enough with Ryall and Dyton.’  
John smiles in sympathy. ‘Yeah... I know the feeling. When I was in the forces it’s something I thought I could get used to. Losing members of the team.’ Unknown to him his face takes on a haunted look. ‘It isn’t. I don’t think it’s something anybody could get used to.’  
Justin nods. ‘I agree. Look... I’ve gotta make a call but if you ever want to get together sometime, you know, just to talk, I’ll give you my number. If you want to, that is.’  
John pauses. His life has been strangely devoid of people he could call friends since he met Sherlock. It’s almost as if he is on hold. With all the running around London he does with the detective and his work at the surgery there just isn’t time to meet new people. There is Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sarah, Anthea and a few members of Scotland Yard. Not to mention Mike who he barely talks to nowadays. All in all it doesn’t constitute a wide social circle and many of the people he would never even think of having a drink with. On reflection Justin would be a welcome addition.  
John draws his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Sure, I’d love to.’  
He hands the phone to Justin who keys in his number and then hands it back. ‘Cool. Well, give me a ring sometime. Give my best to Sherlock.’  
‘Will do. Same for Richardson and Kipps. Thank them for me, yeah?’  
Justin agrees with a casual salute as he starts walking off down the corridor. John turns and moves in the opposite direction.   
The fresh air outside the hospital, once he manages to find the exit, is refreshing. John stands and breathes it in for a few seconds before wandering to a bench and sitting down. The night sky is clear and the stars shine brightly in the inky darkness. John stares up at them for awhile before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.   
Sherlock is okay. Moriarty is dead. There is nothing more to worry about. He can almost feel the tension seep out of his bones leaving him limp on the bench. He relishes the feeling. Although it had been something new, to step back into his military self and accompany a SWAT team on a mission, he thinks he far prefers being ordinary Doctor Watson, GP. The excitement his personality craves can be achieved just by following Sherlock around after criminals. The high-speed chases through London. The tension when they know they are close to their target. Even the moments when all the elusive clues come together in Sherlock’s brilliant mind and he leaps up from the sofa, clapping his hands together in ecstasy with his habitual cry of ‘That’s it John!’ That’s all it takes. It is a battlefield, of sorts. But if John compares his life in the forces without Sherlock to his new life in London with Sherlock, there is absolutely no contest as to which he would choose.  
‘Doctor Watson?’ Jerking abruptly out of his reverie he jumps from the bench, his reflexes rendering him alert for trouble in a second before he realises it’s just a young nurse from the hospital who is standing just outside the doors, glancing around.  
‘Yes?’ he asks, jogging up to her. She looks at him.  
‘There’s a Mr Holmes. In room 705. He’s asking after you.’  
‘He’s awake?’ John asks, a smile spreading unbidden across his features.  
‘Yes.’ She smiles at him suddenly. ‘And he’s fairly insistent on seeing you. Believe me.’  
John can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him. ‘Oh, I believe you.’  
He follows her into the hospital and retraces his steps to Sherlock’s room.  
Upon opening the door he sees Sherlock, propped against pillows and with a scowl fixed on his pale face.  
‘John!’ Sherlock’s face splits into a smile before he can help it.   
‘How are you feeling?’ John asks, settling into his chair. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I only stepped out for a minute to get some air...’  
‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ Sherlock waves a hand impatiently. ‘When am I going to get out of here? I’m bored out of my mind and they won’t let me have my phone.’  
John has to repress a grin. ‘They need to make sure you’re healthy enough to leave. Those wounds on your back... they wanted to make sure they weren’t going to get infected.’   
For the briefest of seconds an expression of pain crosses Sherlock’s face, shuttering those gray eyes and chilling John almost to the bone. Then it has passed, so quickly, John is fairly sure he imagined it. ‘Added to that, you were severely malnourished. You need to get your strength back.’  
‘I can do that at home,’ Sherlock says, almost petulantly. ‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You can take care of me.’  
John pauses. ‘I’m not entirely sure that’s particularly ethical...’ he starts.  
‘Oh who cares about ethical?’ Sherlock snorts derisively. He fixes John with his luminous stare. ‘Please, John. I don’t want to be here. I want to be at home.’  
John opens his mouth to reply when a doctor walks into the room holding what John imagines is Sherlock’s chart. The detective scowls and folds his arm across his chest. John smirks.   
‘Well, Mr Holmes. It’s good to see you looking so...’ the doctor glances up and takes stock of Sherlock’s increasingly dark glare and frown, ‘... alert. How are you feeling?’  
‘Fine,’ Sherlock responds instantly. ‘I’m going to check myself out.’  
The doctor blinks. John looks at the floor trying to suppress the smile he can feel tugging at his lips. Sherlock just seems so... himself. And that makes John feel happier than he can ever remember being.  
‘With respect, Mr Holmes,’ the doctor begins hesitantly. John is fairly sure he has never come across anyone quite like Sherlock, ‘before we allow a patient to check themselves out we have to assure ourselves that they are in no danger and require no further medical attention.’  
Sherlock exhales his breath in a forceful hiss. ‘I am a perfectly sound judge of my health thank you...’ he begins and at this John can no longer retain his silence. How often has he literally forced Sherlock to eat? How often has he dragged the younger man off the sofa late at night and made him go to bed? He snorts aloud, earning himself a sharp glare from Sherlock. No doubt deducing what is going through John’s mind, Sherlock reluctantly amends his previous statement.  
‘I feel fine and if I need any further medical attention I have a brilliant doctor as a flatmate.’ John glances up, surprised. Brilliant? He can count on one hand the number of times Sherlock has praised him like that.   
The doctor looks faintly nonplussed. ‘Ah. Okay.’ He turns his attention to John. ‘And are you the flatmate?’  
John stands up, extending his hand. ‘Doctor John Watson. I’ve been practicing medicine for years, served two terms as an army medic and believe me I’m more than equipped to deal with any minor problems Sherlock may encounter in his recuperation. Should he require more urgent attention I will of course ensure he returns to hospital.’ Finishing the sentence John glances at Sherlock with a look in his eyes which clearly reads: If you do need what I deduce to be urgent attention you will be returning here. No arguments.  
Sherlock nods almost meekly and his dark curls fall over his forehead. The time spent with Moriarty seems to have made him a little more compliant than he would usually have been. He is still himself in all the essential aspects which make up his character, the lightning bolt which is Sherlock Holmes, but he is just that little bit more biddable. The encounter has changed something in him.   
The doctor taps his fingers against the clipboard in his hands. ‘Right. Well, I’ll go and get you some check-out forms and I’ll be right back.’ He shakes hands again with John, nods to Sherlock and leaves the room. John resumes his seat by Sherlock’s side and the detective leans back against the pillows once more, clearly fine with remaining still a moment longer now his freedom is assured.  
‘How did you find me?’ The question comes like a bolt from the blue. John jumps a little bit. He turns to see Sherlock staring inquiringly at him.  
‘How did I... what?’  
Sherlock tuts a little at the time it takes John’s brain to catch up with events. ‘How. Did. You. Find. Me?’ he repeats like a man talking to a small child. John rolls his eyes.  
‘All right, no need for that Sherlock.’ But he is grinning as he says it and he sees a responding smile quirk at Sherlock’s lips before the detective is back to full seriousness. ‘It wasn’t really me. I had some help from the Network. I let them know you were...’ he pauses briefly, wondering how to phrase it delicately, ‘... “missing in action”, so to speak, and they did the rest.’  
‘The man outside the house,’ Sherlock mutters almost to himself. John leans forward a little.   
‘What?’  
‘There was a man, the night I tried to escape... he must have told somebody after all.’ A small frown draws Sherlock’s brows together. ‘Strange. I assumed he must have just thought I was mad and ignored me.’  
John’s mind is racing to keep up. Yes. Of course. Dave had mentioned the fact... eventually... that somebody had apparently seen Sherlock outside the house and it had been that person who had provided the essential address which allowed John and Mycroft to rescue Sherlock. Suddenly John thinks that the two hundred pounds which Mycroft gave to Dave isn’t nearly enough. He wants to find out who this man is from Dave, what was his name? Owen? Ian? and buy him... God... a house or something. If he had enough money for a house and wasn’t struggling to make half the rent on a two-bedroomed flat of course.  
‘Tell me,’ John murmurs softly.  
Sherlock looks at him quizzically. ‘Tell you what, John? How to water a plant? How to operate a pneumatic drill? How to tell how a person died from the condition of his toenails? Honestly, you do have to learn to be more specific.’ John nods slightly as he realises that this is Sherlock putting up his barriers, yet again. Barriers which had been taken down when he had found him in that cellar. Barriers between him and Sherlock and, perhaps more importantly, between Sherlock and the inner Sherlock he never seemed to allow himself to access.   
‘Tell me what you’re feeling. Right now.’ John’s eyes are intense as he scrutinises Sherlock’s face. He doesn’t want to pressure the other man, that’s the last thing he wants to do, but Sherlock does need to talk about what he went through. It would be an essential part of his healing.  
‘Tired. Irate. Frustrated with still being in this hospital bed. Honestly, John, what does it possibly matter?’  
‘Feelings are important, Sherlock,’ John says slowly, understanding something fully for the first time. How on earth can Sherlock possibly be a sociopath? When he has shown, beyond any doubt, an enormous range of emotional responses in the past twenty four hours? And how has it taken John this long to figure this out? He needs to talk with Mycroft. But in the meantime...   
‘Feelings are irrelevant,’ Sherlock snaps, turning his face away from John, assuming the position he so often takes up on the sofa in their apartment whenever he is annoyed or frustrated with the way things are going.  
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. You don’t believe that.’  
Sherlock turns back to John and his pale eyes are blazing. ‘Wrong, John. I do believe that. Feelings do not help circumstances one iota. Not one jot. They don’t help a crime get solved. They lead to a shocking percentage in murders. They are the primary motive for crimes. Feelings get in the way.’ His final statement is just that. Final.   
John sighs heavily. There is silence for a few moments. ‘Feelings allowed me to find you,’ John mutters eventually, so quietly even he has trouble hearing the words he has inadvertently spoken aloud. But Sherlock hears.  
‘What?’ he says, still snappish, but with a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. And something else John is too tired to place.  
‘I said that feelings helped me find you,’ John responds tiredly. ‘You’re my best friend, Sherlock. I value your friendship above almost everything else in my life. That’s why feelings helped me rescue you.’  
Something crosses Sherlock’s face. John isn’t sure what that emotion is. It almost looks like disappointment. In what, though, John can’t imagine. Soon enough, however, the detective’s wan face splits into another of those breath-taking and what John has started privately thinking of as just for John smiles.  
‘I’m not a damsel in distress, John,’ he snarks, that grin still lurking on his lips.   
John smiles back, reaching for Sherlock’s hand so that he can make fully sure to himself that the other man is really here, with him.  
‘Could’ve fooled me,’ he murmurs. They stare at each other for a few moments and then dissolve into childish laughter.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock is so damned tired of this hospital bed. It feels restrictive and strange. He is used to being able to move around, gesticulate wildly at everything and anything. Correction. He was used to that. Now, however, he cannot shake the feeling that his wrists are constantly restrained by cold and cruel metal. Held in place. He has attempted many times to simply delete this feeling from his consciousness. But to his utter frustration it doesn’t work. No matter how many times he tries, it is like that thought is a broken computer link. You try and click onto it to remove it and all it does is freeze the hardware.  
The most worrying aspect, however, is the fact that Sherlock can’t seem to fully shake what happened to him at the hands of Moriarty. Every time he closes his eyes he can see that dingy cellar, see the torture chamber, see the pristine white floor splattering with his blood. Every time he thinks about Moriarty he can feel that intrusive presence, taste the cloying aroma of his own fear and the pain of knowing what Moriarty meant to do. The sensation of the psychopath being so close to him, invading his space, reaching down to that most intimate of areas, somewhere Sherlock had almost forgotten existed...  
He can feel himself shaking and mentally chastises himself. He is back at home now, after persuading the hospital to let him check himself out. He is safe. John is here and he knows that John will not let anything happen to him. Ever.  
He watches the man in question move around the kitchen making dinner. John wipes a hand across his brow as he leans over the simmering pan and stirs it a little. Whatever it is smells good... but he isn’t hungry. He is more interested in the shifting motion John’s jumper makes whenever the doctor reaches up to a cupboard to grasp an ingredient. Sherlock imagines the muscles moving beneath the material and his mouth goes rather dry.   
That moment at the hospital. There had been something, hadn’t there? Or was he imagining it? Perfectly plausible explanation given all he had been through. His mind was liable to play tricks on him (although it was most definitely a more superior mind than most). John was sitting there, staring at him and he was ranting about feelings and how perfectly useless they are (still a valid hypothesis however it doesn’t matter how useless they may be, the fact is he still has them about his irritatingly attractive, straight flatmate) and then John had muttered the words:  
Feelings allowed me to find you. His voice had been husky and soft, almost as if he didn’t intend to say it aloud. His voice, with that odd throaty quality, had sent a jolt so sharp through Sherlock he had actually been surprised he hadn’t jerked up from the bed. And he had, for a brief second, allowed himself to hope. Maybe, just maybe...  
What? That’s all he’d managed to say. That’s all he could say.  
You’re my best friend, Sherlock. I value your friendship... Friendship. Of course. Stupid of him. Stupid. He wouldn’t allow that lapse again.   
And now John is tasting whatever is in the pan, and it’s some sort of tomato sauce, but he isn’t concentrating on that. He’s more intent on gazing at the way John’s lips purse as he blows over the piping hot liquid and then flicks out a tongue to taste it. Sherlock almost groans. What is this?   
Seemingly hearing his inadvertent response, John glances over to where Sherlock is reclining in his habitual position on the sofa.   
‘You alright, Sherlock? Do you need anything?’  
‘Don’t fuss, John. I’m fine.’ Sherlock is slightly flustered and turns his face into the back of the sofa, inhaling the musty scent from the cushions.  
Dimly he is aware of John’s footsteps moving closer and then he feels a hand on his shoulder, rubbing softly. He flinches away from the touch automatically, his mind instantly blurring with memories of Moriarty’s hands on his skin.  
Seemingly getting the hint, John takes his hand off Sherlock’s shoulder and sighs deeply. The detective can feel the exhaled breath blow across the exposed skin at the back of his neck.  
‘Sherlock. Turn around. Talk to me. I’m worried.’ The words are soft and gentle, yet somehow forceful at the same time. Reluctantly Sherlock twists his body so he is lying flat on his back. He doesn’t look at John, merely stares up at the ceiling, his gaze blank.  
John, crouching next to the sofa, sees those shuttered gray eyes and sighs again, trying to think of the right way to get through to Sherlock.  
‘Anything you’re feeling, Sherlock... you have to know you can express it to me. I’m not going to judge you. Admitting to your emotions doesn’t make you weak.’  
Sherlock blinks in slight surprise. John has hit the nail on the head with that one. That has been his all-consuming fear for so long now. Revealing to anyone that he has emotions would be the equivalent to announcing publicly on his website that the impenetrable Sherlock Holmes does indeed have a chink in his armour.  
‘Yes it does,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve told you this before John and honestly it is now becoming a little repetitive... emotions are futile. They are pointless. They serve no purpose.’  
‘Sherlock.’  
John doesn’t say anything more than that. Just his name in a quiet tone which is laced with sadness. Sherlock feels his lower lip quivering slightly and recognises the tell-tale prick of approaching tears in his eyes. No. He will not cry. Thank heaven he is lying down on his back. It is easier to stop himself falling apart. He becomes aware of John’s hand hovering just over his forehead, almost as if he is asking for permission to touch. He knows what he should do. Logic and reason tell him he should twist his head away from John again and bury his face in the sofa cushions once more until these damned treacherous tears are firmly quashed. This is what his mind is telling him, but for almost the first time he doesn’t immediately obey the orders from his brain. His body is rebelling, someplace in his chest is yearning to twist towards the touch and accept it. Accept the comfort it will bring and which he sorely needs. For a couple of seconds he fights with himself until, with an odd jerky movement, his forehead has connected with John’s hand and he almost desperately presses himself into the contact.  
John watches as Sherlock battles with himself. He can almost see what is happening inside Sherlock’s head and feels desperately sorry for him. He cannot interfere. If Sherlock is going to make a decision it must be one he makes on his own. If Sherlock turns away from him now, though, John isn’t sure how he is ever going to break down his barriers again.  
Suddenly, shockingly, Sherlock has jerked his head into John’s palm and is pressing against him. John sucks in a harsh breath, startled by the almost violent movement, and glances down at Sherlock’s face. The detective’s eyes are firmly shut but John can see moisture gathering at the corners, beginning to trickle downwards. Slowly he strokes his fingers across Sherlock’s brow and carefully pushes Sherlock upright a little so he can sit in the corner of the sofa where Sherlock’s head was just a moment ago.   
The detective pulls away and shuffles so that he is sitting next to John, his face still turned towards the doctor. They stare at each other for a few seconds, Sherlock’s eyes reddened and still shimmering slightly with the tears he so hates to shed.  
A sad smile pulls at John’s lips and he opens his arms slightly. ‘Come here,’ he murmurs. Sherlock pauses for the briefest second and again John can see the brilliant, arrogant, cold, emotionless Sherlock fighting with the newly discovered vulnerable side to the detective. It only lasts a moment though and then Sherlock hesitantly scoots over to him and tentatively leans against his side.   
His body thrilling oddly with the physical contact, John winds his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and draws him closer so that his curly head is resting on John’s broad chest. John can feel tears soaking into his jumper but he, unlike Sherlock, knows exactly what tact is and when to use it. They sit in silence.  
Soon enough Sherlock pulls back and looks once more at John. His eyes are puffy, there’s an imprint on his cheek from the pattern of John’s jumper and his curls are ruffled from the amount of times John has run his fingers soothingly through them (should touching another man’s hair feel that good? John isn’t sure).   
Suddenly Sherlock’s nose twitches and a grin spreads across his face.  
‘I think your sauce is ruined.’  
John becomes aware, with these words, of the stench of burning in the air and the rather aggressive hissing and spitting noises coming from the direction of the kitchen.  
‘Bugger!’ he exlaims, leaping up from the sofa and hurrying towards the stove. Sherlock smiles again, absurdly pleased that it isn’t him, for once, who has almost set fire to the kitchen.


	13. Conversations

Chapter Thirteen

Conversations

‘So how is he?’ Sarah cradles her mug in two hands as she looks intently at John sitting opposite her. John fiddles absently with a packet of sugar and avoids her eyes. It had come as a surprise when Sarah had rung him, enquiring carefully about Sherlock’s wellbeing. More unexpected still had been the ensuing invitation to meet up for coffee ‘just to chat’. John had been more than doubtful at first. He had broken up with Sarah, or she had broken up with him, only a few days ago. And more importantly Sherlock was still not near himself. This had been proven when John had announced his intention to head to the shops to buy some milk and Sherlock had descended into some sort of mental tailspin. He had started shaking a little and his eyes had started darting around the apartment like he was trapped in a cage. He had become so agitated that John had called down to Mrs Hudson to ask her if she wouldn’t mind picking up some groceries for them next time she was at the shops, where she was luckily planning on going that afternoon. The crisis had been averted. But it raised some worrying questions in John’s mind. Sherlock had clearly developed a phobia about being alone. What other fears might he have due to Moriarty’s treatment?  
Upon deciding that he owed it to Sarah to at least meet up to talk, John managed to persuade Sherlock to allow him to go out but only after long-suffering Mrs Hudson had been brought up to the apartment under strict instructions to sit with Sherlock until he got back.  
‘He’s... getting better,’ John says eventually, still tossing the sugar packet between his fingers. ‘It’s going to take awhile.’  
‘Of course,’ Sarah murmurs, taking a small sip of her coffee. ‘And how are you doing, John? I’ll be honest, you don’t look so good.’  
John rolls his eyes and manages a slightly forced guffaw. ‘I’m doing okay.’ He glances up for the first time and notices Sarah’s sceptical expression. ‘Okay, fine, I’ve been better.’ He pauses and then makes himself say it. ‘Why do you even care, Sarah? I’ve hardly been...’ he gestures a little wildly, almost knocking over his mug, ‘... the nicest person in the world to you. I was a rubbish boyfriend – I’m surprised you stuck with me as long as you did.’  
She frowns a little and taps her nails against the wood of the table. ‘That’s true, you were a lousy boyfriend as far as they go,’ she admits with a little smile. ‘The thing is, John, and please don’t take offence at this, but I never really saw you as my boyfriend, I don’t think. I mean you were, obviously, but...’ she pauses and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, evidently thinking how to proceed. ‘Can I be blunt with you?’ she asks. Puzzled, and more than a little apprehensive, John nods. It’s the least he can do.  
‘Did you never wonder why we slept together so little? You’re an attractive man, John... very attractive. But after awhile I started to think of you, I don’t know, as more of a brother figure in my life than as a romantic interest. It sounds odd, I know, but that’s how it was for me. Like it was more platonic, I don’t think there was ever any real chemistry between us. Perhaps there was at first but very soon I began to notice that there was always someone in your life who would come first.’ John opens his mouth as if to interrupt and she holds up a hand. ‘Please, let me finish. It’s true, you have to see that, John. Sherlock always comes first with you. I was angry about it initially but that’s when I realized that I wasn’t really that romantically attracted to you. I shouldn’t have let it go on so long but I just didn’t feel ready to let you go.’  
There is a long silence. John draws a hand through his hair, making it stick up on end slightly, and takes a big gulp of his tea. Sarah fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist. Finally John feels the silence has gone on too long for comfort.  
‘I did put you first sometimes,’ he says, sounding rather pathetic even to himself. ‘Remember the Chinese Circus? He wanted me to do something else that night and I told him I was on a date with you.’  
‘Yes,’ she answers slightly wearily. ‘But I think your memory’s playing tricks on you. We only went to the Circus because that is where Sherlock wanted you two to go that night. You wanted us to go out for dinner and a movie, I remember you telling me. But Sherlock not only managed to persuade you to go to the Circus but accept the fact that he was coming along as well.’  
‘I didn’t accept it... when he turned up there I was as surprised as you! I told him to go away!’  
‘Yes, you did. But you didn’t make much of an effort with it, did you? You could have dragged me out of there, no matter what Sherlock said to you, and we could have gone for a drink around the corner or something. Don’t get me wrong, even though we did almost get killed that night, the actual performance was quite enjoyable.’  
‘It was important to the case, I was interested in finding out more about the case...’ John protests weakly.  
‘Rubbish,’ Sarah says bluntly. ‘You can try and tell yourself that all you want, John, but obssessive behaviour about cases is Sherlock’s forte, not yours. He was the reason we stayed that night, John. He didn’t want you to go and so you didn’t. And don’t get me started on the multitude of times we were out together or round at mine and you got a text from him and rushed off with shouted apologies. Even though you knew that nine times out of ten all he wanted you to do was open the blinds so he could see the street or something.’  
John feels a slow anger simmering in his chest. Sherlock is really the only one he has ever allowed to psycho-analyze him and he doesn’t appreciate it from Sarah. It only makes him angrier about the fact that everybody around him seems to think they know him better than he knows himself. He has had enough with feeling stupid.  
‘Can we stop this conversation?’ John asks tensely, gripping his mug tighter so that his knuckles begin to turn white. ‘I only wanted to say I was sorry for being such a bad boyfriend to you. I didn’t really want this to turn into a version of This is Your Life.’   
Sarah leans back, perhaps a little surprised at the bitterness in his voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says slowly and John can tell she is being very careful so as not to say the wrong thing and spoil their meeting entirely, ‘I shouldn’t have said all of that. It’s not my place.’  
John sighs and takes a calming swallow of his tea before rubbing his hands against his temples.   
‘No, don’t be sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just under quite a bit of pressure at the moment and everybody I talk to seems to think I’m gay and in some kind of relationship or something with Sherlock so... I guess I’m a bit tetchy.’  
Sarah drums her fingers on the table. ‘If I say something now, can you promise not to bite my head off?’  
John attempts a wan smile. ‘I can promise to try and not bite your head off.’  
Sarah grins. ‘Good enough. Okay. I think you are in a relationship with Sherlock.’   
‘What!’  
‘Not in the way you think I mean,’ she adds hurriedly. ‘Not maybe in the physical aspect of it...’  
‘Definitely not in the physical aspect of it,’ John splutters, still slightly in shock.  
‘Okay,’ she says calmly. ‘But think about it just for a moment. There are plenty of men who live with other male flatmates. It’s very common. But there’s something different about you and Sherlock. You care about his wellbeing far beyond what is normal for people who are simply friends. If you get a text from him you usually respond to it without question – instantly. You follow anywhere he leads. You’ve killed someone to protect him and you’ve proven you would die for him, if what you told me about the pool incident was correct. How many men could say that about their friends? Even their best friends?’  
‘Yes, but...’ John starts.  
‘You cook for him, make sure he goes to bed if not regularly then at least sometimes. You worry incessantly about him when he’s out on a case and you’re not. When you knew he’d been kidnapped you reacted... extremely.’ Sarah smiles slightly. ‘Your reaction was that of someone whose loved one has just been taken forcibly from them, not their friend.’  
John is aware his mouth is open and he shuts it quickly. Sarah laughs quietly. ‘I’m not Sherlock, but I can work some things out, John. You’ve said there isn’t a physical aspect. I’m just trying to tell you that a relationship is about more than just sex. You’re connected to Sherlock on some level that you and I could never be.’ Her voice holds just the faintest whisper of sadness. But more than that it is wistful. John realizes Sarah longs for someone to care for like John cares for Sherlock.  
‘You’re right,’ John says slowly, softly. ‘I never even thought of it like... but I’m not gay. I’m not! I’ve never even looked at another man like that, never mind found them attractive...’  
Sarah puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not saying you’re gay, John. I’m not trying to tell you who you are. Only you know that. All I’m saying is... keep an open mind. It’s not impossible that you’re, perhaps, bisexual?’ She shrugs, takes a sip of coffee and then laughs as something occurs to her. ‘And heaven knows, Sherlock’s very attractive. If he wasn’t so frightening and obviously gay I might even have made a move!’  
Just as John is getting over his shock, the possiblity he might be bisexual and the fact he is in some sort of weird relationship with his flatmate spelled out to him, this knocks him for six once more.  
‘What?’ he virtually gasps at her.   
‘Oh God! Don’t tell me you haven’t worked this out either? I thought I might have to spell things out a little for you with the other stuff, but you’ve lived with the man for months. I would have thought it was obvious to you now.’  
John tries to tamp down his once more growing irritation. ‘Sherlock isn’t gay. He’s asexual. I’ve never seen him even show any kind of evidence of sexual attraction to either sex and he informed me the day I met him that he was married to his work.’  
Sarah looks slightly nonplussed. ‘Oh. Well, you may be right. After all I’m not gay so I don’t have a “gaydar”. But as your girlfriend, whenever we went out together I got very serious vibes from him.’  
‘Vibes?’  
‘Jealousy,’ Sarah says bluntly. ‘He was jealous of me. Extremely. Added to that there were all the lingering looks at you when you weren’t looking. You didn’t notice but I did. He never looked at you like that when you could spot him. Apparently I was beneath his notice.’ She sounds a little bitter on the last part, but only a little.  
‘If it’s any consolation, most people are beneath his notice I think,’ John says, on auto-pilot, because his mind is racing. Lingering glances? At him?  
‘Are you sure this wasn’t an... overactive imagination on your part?’ he asks. ‘Lingering glances? He was probably only trying to work a clue out and I happened to be in the direction of his...’  
‘No, John. I may not have much of a gaydar but I know a longing look when I see one. I watch romantic films.’ She laughs again. ‘Tell you what,’ she says suddenly. ‘Has Harry met Sherlock?’  
John sees where she is going with this. ‘Sarah... no. No! I barely get along with Harry so I have no idea what would happen if I put her and Sherlock in the same room. I see your point but honestly, even if, if, Sherlock is gay, which I seriously doubt still by the way... he’s not interested in me. Not like that. I would have noticed.’  
Sarah merely raises an eyebrow and drains the coffee from her mug before delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin.  
‘You must do whatever you think best,’ she says quietly. ‘And right now, I agree with you. You don’t need to be worrying about all this sexuality stuff. The most important thing is to get Sherlock better.’  
‘Thank you,’ John says heavily, feeling rather as though his mind has just been mown over with a steam-roller.  
‘Take a couple more weeks off work,’ Sarah says lightly as she pulls her coat off the back of her chair. ‘We’ll manage without you for a little while. Are you okay for money because of course we can’t pay you as you’ve already had your limit of holiday...’  
John thinks of the bank account Sherlock has and the balance in it after the latest installment of his inheritance.  
‘I’ll be fine,’ he murmurs smiling, getting up from his chair and shouldering his way into his leather jacket. He stands and looks at Sarah for a moment, just thinking. If things had been different, if Sherlock hadn’t existed, if he didn’t live with Sherlock, if they’d never met... how different things could have been. If.  
‘Bye, Sarah. I appreciate everything you’ve done for and are doing for me. One day you’ll find someone who deserves you. I’m sorry it couldn’t be me.’  
‘Me too,’ Sarah says, pulling him into a warm hug. ‘Take care of yourself and take care of Sherlock. I’d say give him my regards but if I’m honest I don’t think he’ll care.’ This time there is no bitterness in her tone, merely a mild amusement. John chuckles.  
‘I’ll tell him anyway. I think he’d like to know people are wishing him well... God knows there are few enough of them.’  
‘It’s a shame,’ Sarah says, pulling away. ‘But now he has you and I think he’s changed, for the better.’  
‘Possibly,’ John murmurs noncommittally.   
He leaves the coffee shop and heads back to the flat, jacket collar pulled upwards against the biting wind. On the way he ducks into the local newsagents and picks up a paper, some milk and a few essential groceries, just to carry them through.  
The apartment is quiet when he walks in and as he makes his way into the living room Mrs Hudson stands up to meet him with a finger to her lips.  
‘He’s asleep, bless him. He paced around a bit after you left then just collapsed on the sofa. I made him tea but he didn’t drink it.’  
John peers around his landlady and sees Sherlock draped bonelessly over the sofa, one arm flung outwards, his silky dressing-gown rucked up to the elbow. A full mug of tea stands on the coffee table.  
‘Thanks Mrs Hudson, you’re a star,’ he whispers. She nods, clasps his shoulder for a second and makes her way out of the room.  
He moves over to his usual chair and switches on his laptop, quickly muting it so that the loading music won’t disturb his sleeping flatmate.  
After about an hour of trying and failing to write his blog he shuts his laptop and glances over at Sherlock. The younger man is still asleep but there is a frown on his face which wasn’t there when John had walked in and he is starting to toss about on the sofa. John watches him for a few seconds, concerned. He doesn’t really want to wake him but his sleep does seem restless. About a minute later his mind is made up. Sherlock has started to thrash and his flailing arms are in danger of knocking the tea Mrs Hudson made onto the floor. Added to that the detective has started to groan, a deep throaty sound that seems as if it’s literally being torn out of his chest.  
John is out of his chair in an instant. He doesn’t touch Sherlock merely repeats the same words loudly and urgently. If Sherlock carries on like this there’s a very real danger he’s going to do even more damage to his injured back. In fact John is surprised Sherlock hasn’t already woken himself up from the pain he no doubt is in.  
‘Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up! You’re having a nightmare. Sherlock. It’s okay. You’re safe. Wake up.’  
After a few seconds Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he scrambles instinctively backwards, away from John. His gaze is panicky and unseeing. John risks placing a hand gently on Sherlock’s leg.  
‘Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re alright. Just calm down. Take it easy. Nice deep breaths.’ John keeps his voice low and even. It starts to get through and slowly Sherlock stops shuddering and his eyes become focussed again.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Flashing images and a burning desire to get away. Get away from the nameless horror which is just behind him. He has to run but his legs aren’t working properly. They’re shaky underneath him and it’s getting closer and...  
‘Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!’ John’s voice pierces through the haze. He is speeding forwards, the sound of John calling him is pulling him onwards, out of the reach of his faceless assailant.  
Few a few horrible moments he cannot see anything but the darkness. The threat has gone but he doesn’t have vision. Has he gone blind? If he’s blind how on earth is he ever going to solve cases again? He panics slightly, feels his breathing rasping harshly against his throat. Then there is a gentle pressure on his knee. It anchors him, enables him to return to reality. The darkness clears and John is there, kneeling on the floor in front of him, a hand resting on his leg and dark blue eyes peering into his face, full of concern and worry.  
‘John.’ It is all he can say.  
‘I’m here.’ John rubs his leg soothingly and suddenly a very different problem presents itself to Sherlock’s agile mind, needing urgent attention. He is aware that after what he has been through he should be, by rights, repulsed at any kind of touch. And he is, the idea of anybody touching him immediately brings his mind back to Moriarty. For some reason, however, John’s touch is different. He welcomes it, even needs it. But John’s position, on his knees in front of him with his hand on Sherlock’s leg, is dangerous to Sherlock’s composure. He can feel the skin underneath John’s hand as though it is a separate part of himself, prickling and almost aching. He feels like the heat emanating from that small patch is going to burn through his pyjama bottoms and silky dressing gown and scorch John’s hand. He shifts, his mind reeling in confusion, and suddenly the hand is off his leg and John is standing up.  
‘Shall I make you some fresh tea?’ John is asking although his voice sounds distant and foggy to Sherlock who is still sitting absolutely frozen on the sofa. ‘Mrs Hudson made you a mug but it went cold hours ago.’ Sherlock is aware of John picking up the tea cup and taking it into the kitchen. ‘If it’s okay with you, I want to check on your stitches as well. You were tossing quite a bit in your sleep, I want to check you haven’t ripped any of them.’  
Sherlock is almost obscenely grateful for John’s continued prattling. Acting like everything is as usual. He doesn’t want, doesn’t need, John to tiptoe around him all the time like he is going to break if he says or does the wrong thing. And now that John has mentioned it he is aware that his back is sparking in small waves of pain. This at least takes his mind away from the memory of John’s hand on his leg. He really has to do something about this ridiculous and unexplainable crush he has on John. Unless he’s very careful the other man is going to notice something. He’s not stupid after all. Moriarty learnt that to his cost. Sherlock smiles coldly as he thinks about that.  
John is back with the fresh cup of tea and Sherlock takes it from him, blows on the liquid and obligingly takes a small sip. It is laced with sugar, presumably John thinks he needs a bit of a boost.  
‘Do you mind if I have a look at your back while you drink that?’ John asks. His voice is gentle. Sherlock freezes suddenly. This will mean taking off his shirt... he’ll be topless in front of John. And his back, his back will be horribly scarred. He hasn’t actually seen it himself yet, he’s avoided that, and he definitely doesn’t want John to see it. Besides the fact that it is evidence of his own weakness he doesn’t want John to... what? What Sherlock? He grimaces as the answer makes itself obvious. He doesn’t want John to see how ugly he is. He’d never thought of himself as particularly attractive before but he’d never exactly thought he was ugly either. But Moriarty’s treatment of him has shaken him deeply and left him questioning his self-worth even more than he had ever thought would be possible. His mind is the most important thing to him after all. Everything else is just, just transport. Except this is untrue and he knows it. John is not transport. John is everything. And he wants John to want him. He knows this will never happen, he is foolish for even thinking it. Therefore logic states he should have no problem with John seeing his wounds. But still he quails from it. He wants to pretend, just for awhile...  
John’s seen them before, though says the little voice. He found you, remember. He’s seen your back. If he was going to run, he’d have done it by now.  
That’s true. John had found him in that state and he is still here. Still taking care of him. He’s stupid to let this affect him so much. Returning to himself he becomes aware that he hasn’t moved one inch or said anything since John asked him if it was okay for him to treat his back.  
Unable to think of a verbal reply he merely grunts and slowly slides his dressing gown off his shoulders so it pools around his waist. Pausing for the shortest of seconds he then reaches for his t-shirt and draws it up over his head.  
He hears John’s indrawn hiss of breath and fights the uge to fold himself into a ball. Instead he feels his hands clenching on the sofa cushions and tries to command himself to relax a little. 

XXXXXXXX

John can’t help himself gasping when Sherlock draws his t-shirt over his head. True, the wounds don’t look nearly as bad as they did when John had found Sherlock, as the hospital has dressed the worst of them in gauze. It is still not a pretty sight. The ones left uncovered are slim strips of brightest red. Mingled in with these gashes are bruises in various different stages of healing.  
Steadying himself John reaches up to the topmost patch of gauze and gently starts peeling it away. The lash underneath is deep and ugly but the stitches holding Sherlock’s skin together seem to have held in place.  
‘It’s bad, isn’t it.’ Sherlock’s voice is quiet and controlled.  
‘It’s... well, I’ve seen worse. But it’s not particularly pretty, no.’  
John feels Sherlock tense under his fingers. ‘The good news is that most of them should heal without leaving much of a mark. You’re going to have scars though, there’s no denying that. But the stitches are still intact.’ Carefully John fixes the gauze back in place, marvelling slightly at the soft skin at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He can feel the dark curls brushing his hand as he fixes the dressing and he shudders.  
‘What’s wrong, John?’ Sherlock asks, his quick mind detecting John’s slight shudder.  
John can’t answer him. For some reason he is unable to take his fingers away, despite his brain yelling at him to move. Sherlock’s skin is just so soft. Before he realizes it his fingers are rubbing small concentric circles on Sherlock’s neck.   
It’s just to comfort him. That’s all.  
‘John?’ John is barely aware of Sherlock turning around to face him until his fingers realize that they are no longer touching skin, but hovering oddly in midair. He lowers his hand slowly and raises his gaze to look at his flatmate.  
Sherlock’s gray eyes have turned dark, almost stormy. They continue staring at each other, neither moving. John’s gaze travels slowly down Sherlock’s torso, fully appreciating for the first time that Sherlock is topless. He takes in Sherlock’s lightly muscled abs, the slight trail of dark hair starting near his bellybutton and trailing off downwards... John raises his eyes to Sherlock’s again.   
The other man is looking at him with confusion and something... else. He is also slightly fearful.   
‘John?’ There is a slight quiver in Sherlock’s tone and suddenly John is jolted back to reality. Christ! He’d just very obviously... ogled (there is no other word for it)... his very male flatmate.  
‘I... yeah... so give it a couple of weeks, you should be good as new. I’m making tea, d’you want any?’  
‘John, are you okay?’  
‘I’m fine. Fine.’ John gets up from the sofa like it’s red hot and scratches at his head absently whilst gazing desperately around the apartment. At the carpet. At the table. At the floor lamp, the mantelpiece. Anywhere apart from Sherlock. ‘Actually I’m gonna skip the tea. Got something I need to do in my... er... my room. I’ll see you later.’  
He grabs his book from the table and almost runs out of the room, leaving Sherlock sitting topless and bewildered on the sofa.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock isn’t sure what happened. One moment John was examining his stitches, then he was rubbing circles which felt oh so good on his neck and then when he’d pulled around to ask him what was wrong, John had just stared at him for a few seconds and then almost bolted from the living room.  
It’s him, he knows it. Who wouldn’t be repulsed by his injuries? Sherlock feels a lightning surge of anger at Moriarty. For marking him, scarring him in this way. Physically yes, but also emotionally. Sherlock can’t deny that although his brain capacity remains unchanged he has been feeling a lot more vulnerable recently.   
Slowly he picks up his t-shirt from the sofa cushions and pulls it back over his head, tousling his curls as he does so, wincing as it catches and pulls at a piece of gauze. He stares at the doorway John barrelled through only about a minute ago and then draws his knees up to his chest hating his newfound emotions. He has never felt this miserable before ever in his life.


	14. Returning to Normality?

Chapter Fourteen

Returning to Normality?

The early morning sun starts to filter through the crack in John’s curtains. He lies supine on the bed, tangled in the covers. As the light creeps up over his face he groans and turns over, burying his face in the pillow.  
It’s too early. And he’s hardly had any sleep. Not really surprising, considering the events of the previous night. Well, it could hardly count as events but John feels like he’s just been hit by something large, solid and very heavy. What on earth could have possessed him to behave like that?   
It’s the stress, he thinks to himself. And the relief of having Sherlock back. Then his mind flashes back to Sarah and the conversation they had in the coffee shop.   
‘... there’s something different about you and Sherlock. You care about his wellbeing far beyond what is normal for people who are simply friends.’  
‘Shut up,’ John groans, clutching at his hair, face still enmeshed in the pillow. He remains there until he needs to breathe. Silently he agrees with Sherlock, breathing is boring. He would have liked to stay buried in his pillow forever. It would save him having to face Sherlock for a start. Sherlock had been through hell and back and the sort of comfort John offered had been to eye him up. He swings his legs out of bed and checks the clock with bleary eyes. Half past six. Jesus. Well, there’s no way Sherlock is going to be out of bed at this time in the morning.  
Cheering himself with this thought John pulls on his tattered dressing gown and heads downstairs to make himself a morning cup of tea.  
He is not prepared for seeing Sherlock sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall, although perhaps he should have been. A hot flush of embarrassment surges through him and he can feel his cheeks colouring as he stares at the man he has spent the last night having increasingly erotic thoughts about, despite himself. Swallowing hard he clears his throat.  
‘Morning.’   
Sherlock doesn’t respond.   
‘I’m making tea, d’you want some?’  
Still no answer. Slight irritation now taking the place of the embarrassment, John moves over to the kitchen and starts preparing his usual morning beverage. The silence grows as John pours boiling water over the teabag in the mug. It is almost suffocating by the time he walks into the living room and sits down in his usual armchair. John drums his fingers on the armrest, wondering exactly how to say what’s on his mind.  
‘Listen, Sherlock, I’m really sorry about last night. I didn’t want to make you feel... uncomfortable.’

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Uncomfortable. Of course. Sherlock should have known. It is typical John. Apologising for a perfectly usual human reaction. Anybody would have been repulsed by seeing his injuries. John, being the sweet caring soul that he is, is worried that he made Sherlock feel self-conscious. Well, job done. But not by John. No, it is Moriarty who has made Sherlock like this. Constantly doubting himself, ashamed of his own body. Time was when scars would have made absolutely no difference to his psyche. But the memory of how he came by the ones on his back will haunt him forever.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John coughs and scratches at his hair. The silence is really starting to unnerve him. Sherlock is a statue on the sofa, a sculpture of marble. All flawless white skin and wild dark hair. His gaze hasn’t shifted from the wall, although when John mentioned the word “uncomfortable” he could have sworn he saw a muscle twitch in that icy cheek.  
‘Listen, at some point I’m going to have to look at your fingers. I’m sure they’re healing fine but I just want to check to make sure. If you’re not comfortable with me doing it,’ (which I completely understand) ‘then I can make an appointment at the surgery for you.’  
‘No.’  
The word is quiet and for a moment John doubts whether Sherlock actually spoke.  
‘What?’  
Sherlock does not turn but his body tenses visibly. ‘I said no, John. Did I not speak loudly enough for you?’  
‘I, well, no actually but... look you need to have them looked at Sherlock. I understand if you don’t want it to be me, but...’  
‘God, you really are stupid sometimes. I have given you my answer. Why can’t people just listen?’  
John flinches, slightly stung. He knows he was out of order looking at Sherlock like that last night, and yes, it was bound to have made the younger man feel uncomfortable in his presence, but surely there is no need for Sherlock to treat him so... viciously? Yes Sherlock has called him stupid before, on many occasions in fact, but it has always been in a warm way, teasing and affectionate.   
‘Sometimes stupid people don’t listen when other people are being complete idiots,’ he forces himself to say. The words don’t sound right coming out of his mouth. He wants to say something else but his brain won’t let him.  
There is silence for a moment and then, against all the odds, Sherlock starts to laugh. It’s laughter that John hasn’t heard in a very long time and his heart glows. Tentatively he smiles back at his flatmate. It seems that Sherlock isn’t completely lost to him after all. Now, if he can just batten down these odd feelings that seem to be growing in him everything will get back to normal. Sherlock will heal and they will get back to solving cases, the crime fighting duo like they’ve always been.  
‘Here.’ Sherlock, a smile still present on his face, extends his hand graciously towards John. The little finger and the one next to it are plastered and bandaged, having been rebroken and set again at the hospital.  
John crosses to the sofa and kneels down beside Sherlock. Carefully he takes the fingers in his hands and runs his own fingers over them. It is hard to tell with the bandages and the plaster but they seem straight enough and in time should heal perfectly. He tells Sherlock this and is rewarded by a beaming smile.  
‘So I’ll be able to play again?’  
John grimaces and then grins, thinking of the late night violin concertos and how much he missed them while Sherlock was a captive of Moriarty.  
‘Yes, you will. And the first thing you play had better be a song dedicated to me. For your information I love Mozart and Beethoven.’  
Sherlock’s eyebrows quirk upwards into his hair. ‘Noted.’

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rest of the day passes fairly peacefully. Sherlock occupies himself with shouting at the television (John will never forgive himself for introducing the detective to the Agatha Christie adapations) and John tidies the apartment, making tea that Sherlock drinks reluctantly and meals that Sherlock doesn’t eat.  
Around mid-afternoon there is a knock on the door and Lestrade tentatively pushes it open. Sherlock leaps up from the sofa immediately, his eyes alight.  
‘What is it? Is there a new case?’  
Lestrade pauses in the doorway. ‘No, sorry. I just...’ he trails off slightly and then takes a deep breath. ‘I just wanted to see how you are. And I also dropped by to give you this.’ He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a card, simply addressed to “Sherlock Holmes”.  
Sherlock takes it, an unusual look of bewilderment on his features, and slits it open with his mail knife. John, interested despite himself, peers around at them from his position cleaning the kitchen counters.  
Sherlock withdraws what looks like a card, glances at the front and then flips it open. John sees his expression change. He suddenly looks even paler than before and the card drops from his nerveless fingertips.  
John drops the scrubber he has been using and darts across to his flatmate’s side.  
‘Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong?’ He casts an angry glance to Lestrade who looks a little confused but also somewhat smug. John reaches down for the card and picks it up. He glances at Sherlock and is horrified to see tears trickling out of the corner of his eyes. John glares angrily at Lestrade and flips open the card to see what torment could possibly have upset Sherlock.  
His eyes widen in astonishment and he looks again at the Inspector who is smiling. John opens his mouth to ask a question but Sherlock gets there first.  
‘How much did you pay or threaten them to do this?’ he asks hoarsely. His features are miserable as he stares at the floor. Lestrade swallows.  
‘I didn’t do either of those things. Everyone at the Yard knows what you went through. They all know how much you help solving cases without pay, despite the fact they don’t admit it. All I did was buy the card and pass it around. They did the rest. Listen to me, Sherlock,’ the detective continues staring at the ground but Lestrade continues anyway, ‘you know that you unnerve them. You’re rude, condescending, arrogant and cold. Most of them can’t understand you at all. Hell, I barely understand you and I’ve known you for five years. But they’re good people, all of them, at heart... and I reckon they know you’re good deep down too.’ Lestrade pauses and rubs at his chin. ‘Some may not like you much, and I assume you know who I’m talking about, but that doesn’t mean they don’t wish you well. I did offer the card to Anderson and Sergeant Donovan, but as you can probably see they didn’t sign it. If it helps I think they’re looking forward to you coming back if only to start trading insults with you again.’  
‘By which I assume you mean I observe them and make observations and in return they splutter and hurl predictable, derogatory comments at me?’ Sherlock’s face is still downcast but a light has begun to return to his eyes. Lestrade pauses and then laughs.  
‘Yeah... something like that.’  
John flips the card back over to look properly at the front. It shows a large, rather garish bunch of flowers being clutched by a sickeningly cute teddybear. Emblazoned across the top in pale pink letters are the words ‘GET WELL SOON’  
‘It’s, um, a nice card Lestrade,’ John mutters trying not to laugh. Lestrade has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.   
‘Sainsbury’s garage’s finest. There wasn’t a lot of choice,’ he adds apologetically.  
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock drawls but underneath the facade John can tell he has gotten over his shock and is clearly really quite touched that officers at the Yard have bothered to sign a ‘get well soon’ card for him. John wonders if he’s ever received one before.  
‘I’ll put it on the mantelpiece shall I?’ John asks, already moving across the room.  
‘If you like,’ Sherlock says. ‘That’s what people usually do with such things isn’t it?’  
‘Usually,’ John says, smothering a smirk and scratching at his head. ‘I’ll put some more tea on. D’you want a cup Lestrade, are you staying?’  
The Inspector pauses and glances at Sherlock, as if unsure whether his continued presence in the flat will be welcomed by the detective. Sherlock shrugs as though it is of no matter to him whether Lestrade stays or goes and flings himself onto the sofa.  
John wanders over to the mantelpiece and carefully places the card in prime position in the centre before going into the kitchen and setting the kettle on to boil. As he does so he glances back and sees that Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on the card. Almost as if he senses him looking, Sherlock flicks his gaze over to John, rolls his eyes and turns his head to face the back of the sofa. John grins.  
‘So, how are you doing?’ Lestrade asks gamely, trying to ignore the fact he’s talking to a man with his head buried in sofa cushions.  
‘Bored,’ comes Sherlock’s muffled reply. This time it’s John’s turn to roll his eyes as he the kettle boils and he pours the water into three mugs.  
‘Sherlock’s under doctor’s orders to stay in the apartment and get plenty of rest to let his body reboot, as it were,’ John calls out to the Inspector. ‘He’s not taking it too well.’  
‘I can see that,’ Lestrade replies, taking the tea gratefully as John returns to the living room and hands him a mug.  
‘I am still here you know,’ Sherlock mutters petulantly into the cushions.  
John smiles. ‘If you insist on acting like a child we’ll treat you like a child, Sherlock,’ he says reasonably. This is fine. This is much better. Things are back like they used to be now that Lestrade is here.   
So essentially what you’re saying the little voice mutters is that as long as there’s somebody else around you’re fine with spending time with Sherlock because you don’t get uncomfortable? Well, that’s realistic.  
John shakes his head a little and notices Lestrade glance at him quizzically. He mouths the word ‘headache’ and sits down in his chair, blowing on his tea and taking a sip.  
‘So, how are things with you, John?’ Lestrade asks, clearly giving up on the idea of getting anything other than monosyllabic replies out of Sherlock.  
‘Oh, fine. You know, the usual. I’ve got a couple of weeks off work so there’s not much to do really.’  
‘Ah well, a couple of weeks rest never hurt anyone and I’ve got to say, you look like you could do with the break. How’s Sarah doing?’  
John clasps his mug a little tighter. ‘She’s... okay. I met up with her for coffee yesterday actually.’ Across the room Sherlock huffs into the cushions and draws his legs up against his chest so he is lying in the foetal position. John glances over at him and sighs. Well, there’d be one person who would be thrilled to know he and Sarah and broken up. Sherlock never liked her.  
Suddenly another flash of their conversation occurs to him.  
‘Jealousy... He was jealous of me. Extremely. Added to that there were all the lingering looks at you when you weren’t looking.’  
John scratches at his head and sips his tea in what he hopes is a calm and casual manner. He doesn’t want to give any indication to Lestrade, and of course Sherlock, of the turmoil in his mind.  
‘How long’s it been with you and Sarah now?’ Lestrade muses. ‘Six months or something like that must be. Getting serious I suppose.’  
John winces and clutches his mug tighter. ‘Erm... well, actually, we broke up. A couple of days ago.’  
Lestrade looks distinctly wrong-footed. He hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that John. How are you... I mean... are you okay?’  
‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’d been on the horizon for awhile if you know what I mean.’ Out of the corner of his eye John looks at Sherlock. On first inspection it seems that the detective hasn’t moved but John notices he’s shifted just a little bit so that he is nearer to facing towards them and his breathing has quickened.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade stays and chats inanely for a little while longer. By the time he leaves he and John are on first name terms. Sherlock snorts into the cushions of the sofa, but he doesn’t risk turning around. When Lestrade (or Greg) calls goodbye he merely grunts and flutters a hand in the man’s general direction.   
Only when he hears John walking with Lestrade to the door does he risk turning to face the room. He is certain he has controlled his expression to carefully neutral and bored, although inside he is reeling.  
John broke up with Sarah. Sarah broke up with John. Whatever. The point is that they are no longer together. It had been a lot harder to deduce John’s mental state about this from his position on the sofa given the fact he couldn’t see John’s face but his tone of voice told him plenty. Weary. Resigned. Not particularly upset. He had assumed John’s meeting with Sarah at the coffee house was a date. But according to John they had broken up a couple of days ago which meant that they were still on good enough terms to meet up and talk, and added to that, Sarah had given him two weeks off work.  
With joy Sherlock bends his mind to work unravelling exactly why John and Sarah broke up. His personal feelings about the matter can wait. He isn’t ready emotionally to start thinking about that. And considering the problem with his usual abstract intellect makes him feel reassuringly like himself again. Less vulnerable.  
He is only vaguely aware of John returning to the living room.  
‘You okay Sherlock? What are you doing?’  
His voice sounds distant and faraway. ‘Thinking,’ Sherlock responds curtly and leaves it at that. He dimly hears John sigh.  
After awhile he has to give up. He has no idea how much time has passed since he started thinking about it, but it is hopeless. He may be brilliant at the Science of Deduction but relationships and all their murky reasoning and emotion-driven decisions are beyond him. He opens his eyes and locates John who is sitting quietly in his chair reading and sipping at another mug of tea. Quickly his gaze darts down to the table next to him where, sure enough, another tea sits. He reaches out a finger and touches the side of the mug. Not hot but lukewarm. Probably brewed in the last fifteen minutes.  
‘Ah, back with us I see.’ John’s voice holds a hint of amusement and he flicks a look at Sherlock from underneath his lashes before returning his gaze to his book. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat slightly. That look. No, Sherlock, focus. He ignores how the late evening light entering through the windows creates interesting shadows and planes on John’s handsome face, ignores those lips which are currently pursed slightly in concentration.   
‘Who broke up with whom?’ The words are brusque. John starts slightly in surprise and then slowly puts his book and tea down on the table, rubbing his temples.  
‘Where did that come from?’  
‘Just answer the question, John. I’ve been thinking about it for... awhile now and I can’t work it out.’  
John’s eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise. ‘Now that’s something you don’t hear from Sherlock Holmes everyday.’  
Sherlock huffs in annoyance and snaps out a reply. ‘John you should know by now that emotions and relationships are not exactly my forte. They often follow no logic or reason and I am hardly an expert on the subject as they simply do not interest me,’ not quite true, a relationship with John would interest you quite a bit, wouldn’t it Sherlock? ‘and so I will ask you again. Who broke up with whom?’  
‘Fine. Sarah broke up with me but I came to see that it was a mutual decision. She just got there first.’  
‘Hmm. And why did you break up?’  
John pauses for quite some time before replying. Sherlock, analysing his face, sees several different emotions flit across it. New as he is to the whole feeling business he cannot identify most of them but what he is certain about is that John is thinking very carefully about how to reply and that would indicate a certain censoring of his thoughts.  
‘A lack of chemistry,’ he replies at last.  
‘Interesting,’ he responds. ‘On both sides?’ To his surprise John sighs irritably and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes.  
‘That’s personal Sherlock,’ he says.  
Sherlock frowns, confused. ‘I know it is,’ he says, ‘otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you, I’d have worked it out for myself.’  
‘I don’t think you get it, Sherlock,’ John says. ‘It’s personal. That means I don’t want to talk about it. It’s between me and Sarah.’  
‘Why on earth would you have a problem with me knowing whether the lack of chemistry was mutual? I don’t understand.’  
‘Of course you don’t,’ John mutters, getting up and taking his mug into the kitchen. ‘Forget it.’  
‘But I can’t.’ Sherlock huffs angrily from the living room. ‘It’s going to drive me mad not knowing this, John. You know how I have to understand everything.’  
John’s fists clench at his sides and he fights to keep his temper under control. Snapping at Sherlock will not be beneficial to either of them right now.  
‘And I’m saying to you Sherlock, that this is a personal matter and that you should drop it right now or I’m going to get angry. You know we broke up and you also know that it was due to a lack of chemistry. That’s more than I would have given a lot of people. Lestrade knew to back off just as soon as he heard we’d split. Normal people know about boundaries.’ John hears an indrawn hiss of breath from the living room and swears silently in his head. Jesus Christ. That probably came out wrong. So much for not losing his temper.  
He hurries back into the living room just in time to see Sherlock turn his face away from him and stand up. The detective is careful not to look at John as he leaves the room and clatters upstairs. John sighs and sits down.   
A couple of minutes later he hears Sherlock re-enter the living room and he gets up once more to talk to him.  
‘Listen, Sherlock, I’m sorry. That came out wr...’ he pauses when he sees that the detective is wearing a shirt and jeans and is pulling on a suit jacket. Idly his brain notes that Sherlock looks very, very good in smart/casual outfits. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks bluntly.   
‘Out,’ Sherlock bites back in response, moving over to the door towards the stairs.  
‘Sherlock, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not on your own. You’ve just recovered from a serious illness for God’s sake! I’ll come with you.’  
‘What do you think is going to happen John? That I’ll get scared by a lampost and fall down a drain?’ The sarcasm is thick and sharp.   
‘No, I...’ His words fail him. He can’t get them organised in his head. He settles for a rather pathetic fallback. ‘The weather’s horrible, Sherlock. It’s going to piss it down in a minute. Just stay in. Please.’  
Sherlock treats him to a withering glare, but is that pain hiding behind the icy expression?, and strides off down the stairs.  
‘Remember your coat!’ John shouts after him, feeling like the world’s most useless mother. He drops back into the armchair and tries not to think about how now the apartment is empty apart from himself it feels just like it did when Sherlock was missing.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John is right. It probably is going to rain soon. Sherlock glares at the overcast sky sourly and pulls his coat tighter around himself in an effort to stop the biting wind chilling his slender frame. He doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is that he has to get away from Baker Street and all its confusions, feelings and rampant emotions.  
Out here, in the cold London air, he can breathe. He can think. And yet it doesn’t feel quite right. He has gotten used to having John trotting along at his side, sometimes taking notes as Sherlock fires theories and clues at him as they walk.   
Ridiculous. How has he allowed himself to get so dependent on one person? To the extent where he feels lonely if he takes a walk by himself, that he feels hurt when they say something even vaguely cruel? He understands what he did wrong. He just doesn’t understand why. He should probably have backed down once John had said it was personal. But Sherlock honestly cannot see the problem with him knowing whether it was a lack of chemistry on both sides or just on John’s or Sarah’s. It’s not like he would have judged John or anything...  
Or perhaps he would have. Ignoring his feelings for the doctor isn’t working so well for him at the moment as he is reminded of them at every possible opportunity. If John had told him that he felt a lack of chemistry when with Sarah, Sherlock would have been happy beyond belief. However if it had been the other way around, if Sarah hadn’t felt a romantic connection but John still had feelings for her...  
Sherlock turns abruptly down a side street trying to clear his mind of all this nonsense. Why can’t he just be happy that Sarah and John have broken up?  
Because he’ll find someone new. And that person still won’t be you, because he likes women. Not men.  
‘There’s nothing I can do about that,’ Sherlock mutters to himself angrily, earning himself a bewildered stare from an elderly lady as he passes her.  
The streets are virtually deserted. Sherlock starts to feel increasingly cold and decides it might not be a bad idea to head back to the apartment. John was right. He probably shouldn’t be out in this sort of weather having just recovered from near pneumonia.  
He is in an empty alleyway about five minutes from Baker Street when it starts to rain. He feels the first droplet on his cheek and glances at the sky which is now pitch black. He speeds up a little but before he gains the main street at the end of the alley the rain suddenly increases. It begins, as John said it would, to ‘piss it down’, hammering on his hair and shoulders. Blindingly quickly, like lightning, Sherlock is transported back to his cell in the manor house. Icy water is being thrown over him as he sits, unable to escape, stripped to the waist.   
He stands, frozen to the spot, in the alley, fighting mentally to escape his memories. But they hold him down. The rain spatters all around him, a veritable deluge now, and once more he is chained and vulnerable.   
Sherlock slides to the ground, unaware he has done so, unaware of the moans coming out of his mouth. 

XXXXXXXXX

This is ridiculous, John thinks to himself, as he stares at the clock on the wall of the living room. Sherlock is a grown man. He is allowed to go out for walks by himself. You’re worrying for nothing.   
He hasn’t even been gone that long, he reasons to himself. And yet it doesn’t stop his mind insisting that something has happened, that John needs to go and look for his flatmate. He drums his fingers on the side of the chair.  
Rain starts to splatter on the window, echoing off the glass. John glances outside and sees that what was initially a light shower is quickly becoming heavier and heavier. That decides him. Sherlock shouldn’t be out in this sort of weather having just recovered from a serious illness. And he doubts the detective would have the common sense to return to the apartment. John gets up from his chair and almost runs down the stairs to the front door, grabbing his leather jacket from the hook and stuffing his feet into his trainers. He has no idea where Sherlock has gone, no idea at all. But that isn’t going to stop him looking for him.  
The rain attacks fiercely as soon as he pulls the door to Baker Street closed and steps out onto the pavement. Within seconds it has drenched most of his jacket and his hair is becoming plastered to his face, droplets of water dripping into his eyes.  
He wraps his arms around himself to try and keep warm and starts walking, eyes darting to either side as he goes.  
After walking for about five minutes he stops suddenly, straining his ears. Over the sound of the thundering rain he is sure he heard something like moaning coming from somewhere to his left. Slowly he starts walking once more and sure enough he hears it again, clearer now. He jogs up the street until he notices an alley entrance to his left. The sound is coming from there. Heart in his mouth and a little unsure as to what he will find, he peers into the gloom.   
There is a huddled figure on the ground a few feet away from him. He steps forward and as his eyes adjust to the darkness he recognises the figure as Sherlock.  
‘Jesus!’ John runs the remaining few feet to his friend and kneels down beside him. ‘Sherlock! Can you hear me?’ Sherlock is curled in a foetal position and doesn’t respond to John’s shouts. ‘Jesus,’ John mutters again. He checks his flatmate over for any obvious injuries and doesn’t find any. Sherlock’s anguish must be in his mind.  
‘Right, come on.’ John slings Sherlock’s right arm over his shoulder and gently heaves his friend to his feet. Sherlock sways once upright, but doesn’t fall down again. His eyes are blank and unseeing, and that constant moan is still falling from his lips.   
John starts moving out of the alley with Sherlock stumbling and dragging his feet beside him. Their progress becomes increasingly slower as Sherlock seems to start finding it harder and harder to move his feet.   
When they are about two minutes from Baker Street, John finally makes a decision. He is soaked through and Sherlock has been shivering consistently. He leans away from the detective for a second and eyes him critically.   
Sherlock’s soaking wet clothes cling like a second skin emphasising just how skinny he is. At any other point John would have been worried but at this moment Sherlock’s low weight is a good thing. Bracing himself John slides an arm around Sherlock’s back, mindful of the stitched up lashes and trying to be as gentle as possible.   
Before he can overthink what he is doing he swings his other arm under Sherlock’s knees and literally sweeps the taller man off his feet.   
Sherlock moans a little louder and his head falls back over John’s arm. The doctor is astounded at exactly how little his friend weighs. He was expecting him to be light, but this is ridiculous. It’s almost like picking up a child or a slim woman.   
John keeps up a fast walk as he makes his way back to Baker Street. Once there he deposits Sherlock back on his feet but only as long as it takes him to fumble his keys out of his jeans pocket and open the front door. He guides the detective inside, half dragging him now, and slams the door behind them.  
‘Sherlock,’ he says again, in a gentle tone. ‘Sherlock, come on. Look at me. Focus. You’re at home. You’re fine.’  
Sherlock becomes slightly calmer but his eyes still don’t appear to be looking properly at anything.  
‘Stairs, Sherlock. Can you manage the stairs?’ John isn’t hopeful and when Sherlock makes no reply he sighs and scoops the detective back into his arms. Breathing heavily he makes his way up to the apartment.   
Once inside he carries Sherlock over to the sofa and gently puts him down on the cushions. Sherlock needs to get out of his wet clothes, so does he now he thinks about it, but he feels very uncomfortable with doing it for the younger man. Especially given his fairly recent, increasingly sexual thoughts about his flatmate. He isn’t sure whether he’d be able to control his arousal if it came down to him undressing Sherlock, even given the incredibly inappropriate situation. Even just thinking about it now... John can feel himself stirring and he swallows.  
‘Sherlock, you’ve got to wake up. Come on, you’re okay.’ He keeps his voice low and soothing. From the blank expression on Sherlock’s face John is guessing he is reliving some sort of torture he receieved at the hands of Moriarty and that gets him to thinking about what might have been the trigger. Something must have happened during Sherlock’s walk to get him to react like this.  
He wonders about it almost idly for a couple of seconds before something pops into his mind. The rain. During his training in medicine he read somewhere about Water Torture. It involved using water in various different ways to subdue and inflict pain on their victims. For some reason John is absolutely certain that Sherlock experienced some form of this water torture during his captivity and that it had been the rain which had triggered Sherlock’s latest breakdown.  
‘Come back to me, Sherlock. You’re fine. Just breathe.’ Gradually Sherlock’s eyes clear and once again his gaze is lucid as he stares at John. His chest is heaving jerkily as he tries to draw in deep breaths but can only manage rattling gasps.  
‘John, I...’  
‘It’s okay. Don’t talk for now. But you do need to get out of those clothes.’ Sherlock raises a delicate eyebrow and John blushes and feels himself stir once more as he thinks about how his words must have sounded.  
‘Bathroom. You. Go.’ He bites out the words and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom.  
Sherlock does as he asks and soon John hears the click of the lock of the bathroom door. He makes his way upstairs and calls through the wood to Sherlock.  
‘I’m going to leave some dry clothes on the landing for you, okay? Make sure you dry yourself properly.’   
There is no reply but he wasn’t really expecting one. He makes his way into Sherlock’s room and picks up some tracksuit bottoms, a long sleeved top he’s never seen Sherlock wear and a thick woollen dressing gown which will definitely afford the detective more warmth than his usual silken one. A completely pointless garment in John’s mind. A dressing gown’s primary purpose is to give its wearer warmth and the only thing that silk gown is good for is making John’s mind wonder how it would feel under his fingers as he strokes over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his back...  
No. Stop those thoughts. Right now. But it is too late. He stands in the middle of Sherlock’s bedroom and inhales the detective’s scent and two thoughts occur to him in quick succession.  
I’m hopelessly attracted to, if not in love with, my male flatmate. And the other: I am so, so screwed.


	15. Acceptance

Chapter Fifteen

Acceptance

A Month Later

‘Today’s the day, Sherlock. We’ve got an appointment at the hospital for half past one.’ John opens the living room curtains, allowing the early morning light to wash the living room. Sherlock, absently prodding at a petri dish full of mould in the kitchen, turns around to face John.  
‘Can’t you just take them out here? I don’t want to go back to the hospital.’ His tone is almost petulant and John smiles.  
‘No, Sherlock. You need to go to the hospital for this. Don’t worry, removing stitches is very quick. You won’t be in there longer than an hour.’  
‘Still too long,’ Sherlock mutters, abandoning his experiment and flouncing into the living room. He glances up at John as he flings himself onto the sofa. ‘And what about these?’ he holds his broken fingers up to John almost accusingly. ‘How long until these are fixed?’  
For a moment John relishes the novelty of having Sherlock actually asking him questions, relying on him for answers which elude his amazing brain. He smiles at his flatmate and moves into the kitchen to boil the kettle. He does seem to be making an extraordinary amount of tea these days. Even though he has started back at work he has quite a bit of free time on his hands and often he likes nothing better than sitting relaxed in his chair with a good book, a mug of tea and Sherlock. Having Sherlock around has become a requisite for John’s peace of mind. Ever since the disastrous ‘walk’ Sherlock decided to take about a month ago John worries if Sherlock ever leaves the house on his own. His mind starts playing tricks on him and increasingly horrific scenarios present themselves in his head, so that when Sherlock eventually returns (as he always does) John has usually managed to work himself into a state of near panic over nothing at all. No. Sarah is right. This is not how someone who is merely friends with someone reacts.  
‘John?’ Sherlock’s irritated tone snaps him back to reality.   
‘Oh. Erm... another couple of weeks. Perhaps a month. It was a pretty nasty break you know, and we have to be sure that they’ve healed properly.’  
Sherlock casts a longing look at his violin which is propped up in the corner of the living room and sighs deeply. John scratches at his head and then remembers something.  
‘Oh! I forgot... Lestrade dropped these over for you. He said you needed something to occupy yourself during your recuperation. To be honest I think he was more concerned with me not killing you than your health.’ Smiling wryly John crosses to his bag and removes a thick stack of manila files. Sherlock’s mercury eyes widen and he bounds over to John, long legs covering the distance in a matter of seconds.  
‘Are these...?’ he doesn’t finish the sentence as he snatches the files from John’s hands.  
‘Cold cases. Yep. Lestrade is sick to the back teeth of them, his expression not mine, and says if you can’t do anything with them nobody can.’  
‘Very unusually astute of him,’ Sherlock murmurs, resuming his position on the sofa and flipping open the first file with the eager expression of someone opening the latest novel of their favourite writer.   
‘Don’t forget the appointment. It’s at half past one,’ John warns Sherlock as he picks up his bag and drains his tea. ‘I’m off to work. I’ve got an hour for lunch so I’ll meet you at the hospital. If you’re not there then I will not be responsible for my actions when I next see you. Understood?’  
Sherlock touches the first two fingers of his hand to his temple in a casual salute and John laughs.  
‘And make sure you eat!’ he adds as he starts down the stairs. ‘You’re far too skinny. If you carry on like this you’re going to disappear.’  
As he shoulders his jacket in the hallway and stumps out of the door he reflects on how he meant that last statement as a joke but it isn’t really funny. Not at all. That incident when he had to carry Sherlock home in the rain really drove home to him exactly how much weight the consulting detective has lost in the past few months.  
Sherlock has always been bad at remembering to eat, and at least John can satisfy himself with the knowledge that it isn’t an eating disorder, at least not in conventional terms. He knows that Sherlock hasn’t got anorexia or bulumia or anything like that. With Sherlock it is simply a case of being too busy deducing to worry about something as pedestrian as eating. But it always amazes John that somebody who is so brilliant and so talented can overlook basic human needs such as eating and sleeping.   
With careful guidance from John Sherlock has been sleeping more. Mainly because John escorts him to his room every night and sits with him on the edge of the bed while Sherlock falls asleep. Sherlock claims that he cannot sleep alone and in the dark. This does seem to be the case as on the one occasion John attempted switching off the bedside lamp and leaving the room, Sherlock had another one of his panic-attacks and didn’t recover for at least three hours. John can add those to his list of triggers instilled by Moriarty. Darkness. Being alone. All consistent with being held in an incredibly dimly lit dungeon on your own for days on end. Not for the first time he feels a biting current of anger surge through his veins and he flexes his fingers, as though imagining them clamped around Moriarty’s throat.  
The man is dead and yet he is still haunting and tormenting Sherlock. And John, a trained doctor, has no idea what to do about it. He has thought of recommending Sherlock to a psychiatrist but rejected that idea almost as soon as it crossed his mind. Ridiculous. Sherlock would never even contemplate the idea of airing what happened to him to a stranger. John knows how much it cost the younger man even to admit it to him. And he still doesn’t know the full story.  
After the episode with the rain, John convinced Sherlock to tell him what had triggered it. Sherlock explained but didn’t go into detail. However the bare facts were enough for John to want to hit something. He had been right. Water torture. Drenching your victim with ice cold water every two hours in a freezing room where they can’t warm up, can’t dry off... it was barbaric.  
It took him about a week to convince Sherlock to have a shower, and even then he had to sit outside the door and talk constantly through the wood so Sherlock would know he was there and that he wasn’t alone. John was happy to do it. Hell, he would even have got in the bloody shower with Sherlock if it had helped. Although, perhaps, given his new... feelings... that wouldn’t have been a hardship.  
Stop it, he tells himself sternly. But it is hard. Over the past month his inappropriate thoughts about Sherlock have been steadily increasing and he finds it disorientating. Like the world he knows has been turned upside down and suddenly he has become somebody else. He has always been straight. Always. He likes girls. He likes the way that in summer they float around in flimsy dresses, flip-flops and oversized sunglasses, smooth skin tanned by the sun. Breasts evident in the skimpy tops and low necklines. He likes them in winter when their hair peeks out from under floppy woollen hats and the way they still wear skirts even if accompanied by thick tights and knee-length furry boots. He likes their curves, skinny women have never held an allure for him, the way they feel under his hands as he runs his fingers down their bodies...  
You can’t be completely straight if you’re having erotic dreams about another man his inner voice argues. Erotic dreams is just about right. He can’t remember one morning in the previous month when he hasn’t woken up with an aching erection and Sherlock’s name on his lips. His inner voice is completely right. He can’t lie to himself anymore. But just because he has been having weird thoughts about Sherlock recently doesn’t mean he has to act on them. Besides, he isn’t sure he’s willing to think about what ‘acting on them’ might mean. Does he want to hold Sherlock’s hand in public? Does he want to kiss him? Embrace him the way he would his girlfriend? Does he want to... sleep with him?  
Questions. But he doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to think. Such a dramatic change in his psyche cannot happen overnight and John doesn’t want to rush it. What happens will happen he thinks optimistically. Suddenly something occurs to him and he fishes in his pocket for his mobile. Scrolling down the list he finds the number he wants.  
He holds the phone to his ear. It rings for a few seconds and then somebody picks up.  
‘Hello?’  
‘Hi, Justin. It’s John. John Watson. I don’t know if you remember me but...’  
A deep chuckle. ‘John! Course I remember you. How are you? How’s Sherlock doing? Healing nicely, I hope?’  
‘Yeah, no he’s fine. Actually he’s getting his stitches taken out today, so that’s good. His fingers are gonna take a bit longer. How’s Richardson? And Kipps? You know it’s so weird, I don’t even know their names.’  
Justin laughs, deep and throaty. ‘It’s Dave Richardson and Mark Kipps. They’re fine, thank God. Back home with their families where they belong.’ There is a pause and then Justin speaks again. ‘So how are you, John?’  
John hesitates before replying. ‘Yeah, I’m good. It’s a little tricky sometimes, but I’m fine. Actually I was wondering, I know it’s been awhile, but are you still up for that drink? It’s just I have something I need to discuss with someone and, well, I’d like to talk it over with you.’  
Another pause, longer than the first one. Then Justin says, ‘Is this to do with Sherlock?’  
‘How did you know?’  
John can almost see Justin shrug. ‘Just a guess. Sure, where d’you wanna go?’  
John names a pub quite near Baker Street, Justin says he knows it well, and they arrange to meet at eight o’clock that evening.   
Feeling somehow better now that he’s meeting up with somebody virtually unconnected with Sherlock and Scotland Yard, John heads off to the bus stop and work. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

The appointment at the hospital goes exceedingly well. Sherlock turns up on time, for a start, and complains only minimally about the shocking organisation, untidiness and general unacceptibility of the nurses and doctors. The stitches are removed easily and competently. Most of the wounds without the stitches are healing anyway and have become pale lines on the already white skin of Sherlock’s back. The deeper ones look slightly angrier but John is pleased to see that the flesh has knitted together again well and should only leave minimal scarring.   
He leaves to go back to work pleased to see that Sherlock seems much happier as he says goodbye. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

John receives a text from Sherlock around two o’clock that afternoon.

Need more sulphuric acid. And ketchup. Heinz, no other brand.  
SH

John laughs and turns his attention to the next patient.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The apartment is almost completely dark when he enters the living room at five o’clock that evening. The standing lamp in the corner is on, shedding a weak light on the contents of the room, but that is it.  
‘Sherlock?’  
Carefully he walks into the kitchen and flicks on the light. The surface of the table is covered, as usual, with Sherlock’s current experiments. Absently he notices that there is a new burn mark in the wood. He places the shopping on the counter and hesitantly opens the fridge.   
Thank God there are no heads. That is his first thought and it overrides the natural irritation he feels at seeing a plate with severed fingers covered in cellophane. Carefully he places the ketchup in the section of the fridge he has marked with:  
NO EXPERIMENTS. KEEP CLEAR.  
‘Sherlock?’ He calls again, moving back into the living room and gazing around. There is a clattering on the stairs and Sherlock bursts into the room, his eyes wide and excited.  
‘Did you get the acid?’ he asks, without preamble.  
John nods in the direction of the kitchen counter and Sherlock whisks past him.  
‘Excellent. Some of those cold cases of Lestrade’s were really tricky. Most easy, of course, obvious the moment I looked at the details.’ He throws a beaming smile in John’s direction which makes the doctor feel a little weak. ‘But some... some, John were challenging! God I missed this!’ Sherlock whirls over to him clasps him by the shoulders and then dashes back to his acid. John watches him remove the fingers from the fridge and start to unwrap them before he heads off upstairs to shower and change. As he starts up the stairs he calls back down to Sherlock.  
‘What was the ketchup for?’  
‘Oh, I was feeling a little hungry. I wanted a bacon sandwich.’ John pauses.  
‘Right. Well, it’s in the fridge if you’re still hungry.’ Absurdly pleased that Sherlock is actually showing an independent willingness to eat, John continues upstairs.

XXXXXXXXX

When he returns to the living room the first thing he notices is the smell. It assaults his nostrils and literally makes him stagger.  
Clapping a hand over his nose he makes his way to the kitchen where Sherlock is standing over a saucepan placed on full heat over the stove and stirring with a metal slatted spoon.  
‘Sherlock?’   
‘Ah, John. Sorry about the smell.’ John personally doesn’t think a mere apology is enough for the scent now pervading the apartment which reminds him of cat sick, marmite and rotting rubbish.   
‘What, the bloody hell, is it Sherlock?’ he asks as calmly as he can.  
Sherlock turns from the stove and gestures at the pan excitedly. ‘Have a look... this is amazing John.’  
Against his better judgement, John peers into the contents of the saucepan before stumbling back with a cry of disgust. ‘Sherlock! Fingers and... God knows! In the pan! I use that for cooking!’  
‘We have lots of pans, John,’ Sherlock replies dismissively, waving his hands in the air. ‘I’m trying to find out what exactly happens to severed limbs when they come in contact with sulphuric acid under intense heat. It might be the vital clue I’m looking for!’   
Horrible though the smell is, annoyed as John is that Sherlock has used one of his pans for an experiment which now renders it useless for any further culinary use, John finds he can’t be angry. Not when Sherlock is looking at him like that. Eyes alight with enthusiasm and excitement, animated and energised... he looks like the Sherlock John knew from the first meeting at Barts. Uninhibited, wild and... beautiful. He doesn’t flinch from the adjective. Yes, beautiful. It doesn’t mean he has to linger with that stench in the air though.  
‘Great. Well, I’m off out. Open the windows, please. The smell is bloody awful. And clear up when you’re done.’

XXXXXXXXXX

The pub is busy with people thronging around the bar and smoking outside on the benches. John shoulders his way through the crowds and scans the room for any sign of Justin. Sometimes he resents being shorter than other men and wishes he was taller like Sherlock. A flush creeps up his neck as his mind conjures up a vivid image of his flatmate, willowy figure shrouded in a dark coat, ebony curls in disarray, pale cheeks flushed with a hint of rose and full lips quirked...  
John swallows, his mouth dry. Shit. Not the time to be thinking about Sherlock like that. He resumes his search for Justin, pushing his way through the people once more.  
After a couple of minutes he finds him, seated in a quiet corner at a two-person table, a pint of lager in front him looking almost untouched.  
John catches his eye and waves as he makes his way towards him. Justin raises a hand in response and grins as John finally collapses into the seat opposite.  
‘Bit busy, isn’t it?’ Justin says, taking a sip of his lager. ‘I didn’t know what you wanted to drink so I didn’t get you one. Buy yourself a pint and then we’ll start rounds. Sound good to you?’  
John raises an eyebrow. ‘We’re doing rounds? Planning on making a night of it, are you?’  
Justin grins. ‘Well, I got a day off tomorrow and when I know I don’t have to be up the next morning I like to get shitfaced. It’s like, I’m so responsible in my job all the time that it’s relaxing to be a bit irresponsible every now and again.’  
John smiles. ‘I get that. I’ve got a day off tomorrow as well so getting drunk sounds like a plan to me.’  
‘My kind of man. Grab yourself a drink if you can get near the bar.’  
Getting to the bar does prove a little tricky but John manages it eventually. He picks his pint up and makes his way back to Justin.  
As he sits down again, Justin raises his drink.  
‘So... cheers.’  
John looks at him. ‘What are we toasting?’  
Justin shrugs. ‘I dunno... whatever. What do you wanna toast?’ A host of responses flit through John’s mind. To Sherlock being alive. To Sherlock overcoming all of Moriarty’s despicable torture. To my stunning flatmate, him of the impossible cheekbones and stormy gray eyes. To Sherlock.  
‘To new friends,’ he says at last, trying to ignore the second flush he feels making its way onto his cheeks. He has a feeling that Justin has noticed, however, as the other man smirks before clinking his pint to John’s and drinking deeply, wiping the residual lager off his lips with his sleeve when he’s done.  
‘So, how’ve you been John? I’m glad to hear Sherlock’s doing better.’  
‘Yeah, he’s progressing nicely. He had to go the hospital today as you know. To get his stitches taken out.’  
Justin winces and pulls a face. ‘Sounds nasty. How did he take it?’  
‘Oh, he amused himself by making derogatory comments about the hospital, the architecture, the nurses, the doctors... pretty much everything. I think he was fine. And besides, stitches don’t take that long to remove. I think he’s more worried about his fingers.’  
Justin frowns. ‘His fingers? Why?’  
‘He plays the violin. Incredibly well, actually. He’s very talented and it’s one of the few things he takes any real pleasure in doing.’  
Justin smiles slightly. ‘You sound very proud of him.’  
‘Yes, well. I am, but it does get annoying when he wakes me up at two in the morning playing the damned thing loud enough to wake the dead.’  
Justin’s eyes widen. ‘He does that?’  
John nods wearily.  
‘My God,’ Justin says in wonder. ‘How on earth do you do it?’  
‘How do I do what?’  
‘Cope with him. I don’t even know the man but from what you’ve said so far he would drive me absolutely nuts.’  
John shrugs. ‘People get the wrong impression about Sherlock. Yes the constant experiments, the severed limbs in the fridge,’ (at this Justin shudders a little) ‘the incessant violin playing, the arrogance and his desperate need to be right about everything are sometimes annoying, but... it’s what makes him him, you know? And you can say what you like about it, but life with him is never boring. Irritating, yes. Confusing, God yes. But not boring. And I need that sort of excitement in my life.’  
Justin just looks at him with his head quirked to one side. ‘You like him.’  
John flushes. ‘Of course I like him. He’s my flatmate, my best friend. I wouldn’t live with him unless I liked him.’  
‘Don’t be obtuse, John. You know what I mean. I know you said you were straight but, you obviously fancy Sherlock. In fact, from the way you talk about him, it sounds like you’re on your way to being in love.’  
Yes, John thinks immediately. And even though this is the subject he met up with Justin to discuss, still his brain rebels against it. ‘What are... no, I mean...’  
‘John,’ Justin says patiently. ‘Come on. Stop kidding yourself. You can tell me, I’m not going to judge you. And it doesn’t matter what you say because I already know. So you might as well admit it.’ He spreads his hands invitingly. ‘I’m all ears. And maybe it’s better for you to talk about this to me, because we don’t know each other that well. And I don’t know Sherlock. Consider it an outsider’s perspective.’  
The last, already crumbling, wall in John’s mind tumbles down and he feels suddenly weak. All the strength seems to have drained out of his limbs and he is surprised he doesn’t fall off his chair. Instead he clasps his drink faintly and takes a deep trembling draught. The alcohol steadies his nerves and he looks at Justin.  
‘You’re right. He... I mean, he’s gorgeous. But, Justin, I’m straight! I’ve always been straight! How can I suddenly be something else? How can I be getting aroused by another man? It’s something so completely out of my comfort zone, I can’t even...’ John waves his hands wildly as emotion gets the better of him, and seemingly instinctually, Justin clasps his own hands around John’s wrists and pins them to the table before both their pints end up flying through the air.  
‘John, calm down. It’s okay. Lots of people have these sorts of crises in their lives. Yours is just happening a little later, maybe. Now, is it so inconceivable that you are bisexual? Lots of people are.’  
John’s mind flashes back to Sarah saying the exact same thing and he pauses before replying, almost reluctantly, ‘No, it’s not inconceivable.’  
Justin smiles. ‘I want you to do something for me.’ He takes stock of John’s expression. ‘No! Nothing like that! All I want you to do is look around this pub. Try and keep your mind open, don’t let prejudice in. Look at the men as well as the women. Tell me if you see a man you find even a little attractive.’  
John huffs and takes another deep draught of his pint before deciding to humour Justin. Taking a deep breath he starts looking around the crowded pub.  
There are a lot of beautiful girls who he instinctively looks at first, but then he takes Justin’s words on board and almost forces himself to start looking at the men, trying to keep an open mind.  
That one. There. By the bar. John allows his gaze to linger, cataloguing every aspect of the man which is attractive. Dark, longish hair. Tall and slim. His eyes are beautiful, large and blue.   
John takes another sip of his drink to cover his confusion before moving on to other men in the pub. That one has a lovely smile. The man sitting on his own in a corner has beautiful hands which could be put to a much better use than merely cradling his drink. A man standing near John and Justin’s table with his back to them has a perfectly shaped arse. John blushes again and looks back at Justin.  
‘Well?’  
‘Okay, fine. So maybe I am bisexual.’ The words come out of his mouth easily and almost without hesitation. He feels better once they are said. Lighter.   
Justin beams broadly. ‘There! D’you feel better now?’  
‘Yeah. A bit.’ John runs his hand through his sandy hair. ‘But how on earth is this going to help me with the Sherlock situation? The man is hardly closely acquainted with relationships and even supposing he was – he’s just not interested. He’s never given me even a hint of anything... and after what he suffered with Moriarty, I don’t think he’s ever going to want that sort of physical contact.’  
Justin frowns and drums his fingers on the table for few moments. ‘Well, is he gay? Do you know?’  
John thinks over what people have said to him about Sherlock in the past and Sherlock’s own words at Angelo’s that night.  
Do you have a girlfriend?  
Girlfriend? No... not really my area.  
‘He might be,’ John replies cautiously.   
‘Well then, drop a few hints in his direction. From what you’ve told me of Sherlock, he’s going to spot them immediately. What he does then is up to him.’  
John feels a surge of anxiety. Admitting his feelings to someone else is one thing, but actively leaving Sherlock clues? That is terrifying and he isn’t sure he is up to it yet.  
‘Things like what?’ he asks, draining his pint.  
‘Use your imagination. You’ve been with people in the past, you know how it works. Just because you’re lusting after a man now doesn’t make it much different. Dress better, for a start.’  
John frowns in indignation. ‘What’s wrong with the way I dress?’  
Justin raises his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Nothing. But you could make more of your... assets, so to speak. Wear tighter jeans. More blue... it brings out your eyes. The leather jacket is good, it’s sexy and also casual. Fitted shirts as well.’  
‘How do you know all that?’ John asks, bewildered.  
‘I’m not gay, but my best mate is. He’s taught me a few things,’ Justin explains airily. He stands up gracefully and stretches. ‘My round. What’re you drinking?’  
‘Fosters,’ John responds, still a little stunned.  
‘Right. When I get back we’re gonna talk some more about how you can work out how Sherlock feels about you. Consider me your fairy godmother and you’re Cinderella going to the ball.’  
John snorts with laughter and flips the bird at Justin as he grins and makes his way back over to the bar.

XXXXXXXXX

John returns to the apartment exceedingly tipsy yet not quite drunk. It doesn’t stop him having to fumble with his keys or tripping over the first step in the hallway though. The living room is dark and he presumes that Sherlock has retired to his room. He is pleased about this. After the frank conversation he has just had with Justin, seeing Sherlock in the flesh might be a little too much for his self-control to take.  
He makes his way up to his room, stubbing his toe on one of the stairs and cursing but quietly so that he doesn’t wake up Sherlock if he’s actually asleep.  
Falling onto his bed he relaxes against the pillows and lets his mind wander. Is it possible that Sherlock is gay? And if he is, is there any chance he could have any feelings towards him? John frowns. The worst possible outcome of this situation would be him coming on to Sherlock and the younger man rejecting him. It would ruin their friendship. John would have to move out of Baker Street, somewhere he is finally calling home. He wouldn’t have Sherlock in his life at all. No matter how strong his feelings get, he wouldn’t risk that for the world. He has to know that Sherlock reciprocates his feelings before he makes a move.  
Sherlock. The man’s very name now has John almost quivering with arousal. His mind paints a picture of Sherlock’s stunning face and John slowly reaches a hand down his torso. He has had enough of erotic dreams he can only half remember when he wakes up. It is time to make his fantasies, if not a reality, then something resembling it. 

He sees Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed, staring down at him, those grey eyes blown wider than usual with arousal and lust. The cupid lips parted. John groans and finally allows his hands to undo his belt and unfasten his jeans.  
Sherlock smiles in a predatory fashion, a look which sends a stab of heat straight to John’s crotch, making him twitch. He fumbles with his jeans, pushing them down past his hips. Sherlock crawls up the bed beside him and John can feel his breath on his cheek. Panting he slides down his boxers and grasps his cock firmly.   
‘I want you, John,’ Sherlock purrs into his ear, his voice velvety and yet rough. John moans and starts stroking himself to a regular rhythm.   
‘Tell me you want me, John,’ Sherlock hisses, sliding a slender hand under John’s shirt. John gasps as the heat begins to build within his body.  
‘I – I want you, Sherlock.’  
Sherlock throws a leg over John so that he is straddling the doctor’s chest. He bends low over him and gently sucks on the pulsepoint at John’s neck. John reaches up his free hand to tangle his fingers in the dark curls. Sherlock’s kisses become more forceful against John’s neck and John’s hand which is pumping his cock starts to speed up.   
Growling John grips the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head and pulls the detective’s mouth away from his neck. He can see the taut paleness of Sherlock’s throat completely exposed to him... that endless column of divine flesh just waiting to be tasted. He can see Sherlock’s sharp collarbones just peeking over the collar of his slightly unbuttoned silk shirt.  
‘Sh-Sherlock,’ he moans as Sherlock smiles again and starts biting at his earlobe.  
‘Do you want to fuck me, John?’  
That voice, that sinfully rich voice. John is panting in earnest now as his cock leaks precome onto the sheets.  
‘Yes... God, yes, Sherlock!’  
Sherlock reaches a hand down and pinches John’s nipple sharply. John cries aloud and his back arches off the bed as his orgasm sears through him, blinding and glorious.   
Sherlock gets off his chest and walks back to the foot of the bed, resuming his beginning position.  
‘Then tell me.’

John gasps as the fantasy ends and his room becomes clear to him once more. Sherlock is not standing opposite him... he never was. He was never in the room. John’s skin is covered with a sheen of sweat and the sheets are covered with the evidence of his passion.   
Groaning and getting to his feet shakily John moves to the bathroom and cleans up the mess as much as he can. Stripping off his clothes he collapses between the sheets and ponders over Sherlock’s last words. He was the one who made Sherlock say them, it was his fantasy after all, but what do they mean?  
Then tell me.  
He can’t possibly just come out and say how he feels to Sherlock. Can he?


	16. Feeding the Birds

Chapter Sixteen

Feeding the Birds

Sherlock wakes from an uneasy sleep quite suddenly. A loud cry from John’s room is what has woken him. He lies tangled in his blankets, listening intently. No doubt John has had a nightmare once again. He knows the doctor is still haunted by his memories of Afghanistan and although the bad dreams have definitely lessened over time there are still occasions when John will wake himself (and usually Sherlock) up with his shouts. Sure enough faint noises filter through to Sherlock’s ears. John has probably got up to go to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. Idly he debates going to see if the other man is alright but quickly resolves to stay put. John probably would not want him fussing around right now. So he lies silently in bed, listening to John pottering around upstairs until the small noises lull him back to sleep.  
He wakes early the next morning, as he usually does on these rare occasions when he actually manages to sleep during the night. He feels refreshed and alert, however his good mood fades when he discovers he has once again awoken hard. Sherlock sighs. Although he can’t remember, he was probably dreaming of John again. This would not be the first time he has dreamt about his flatmate and at least this morning he does not have to clean the sheets. Frowning irritably he swings his legs out of the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, undecided. He could do what he usually does and ignore it until it goes away but...  
He tilts his head upwards, listening. No sound from John’s bedroom. The other man is surely still asleep, and if he is very quiet... but no. Too risky. However much he wants to relieve the pressure in his groin he cannot risk John overhearing him. A shower. The running water would easily cover any noises you might make. Any names you may call out. Sherlock’s fist clenches slightly in the covers. Not a shower. Not the pounding water.   
You have to face it sometime, he argues with himself. Wiping bits of your body separately with a wet flannel isn’t really good enough is it? And this way at least you’ll have something to distract you from the water.  
He sighs, his fingers relaxing slightly. He is right. He has to face his memories at somepoint, he refuses to let the ghost of Moriarty haunt him forever. And yes, this way he will have something to... distract him.  
Sighing he slips out of his pyjama trousers and t-shirt, grabs his towel and heads for the bathroom. Dropping his towel on the cold tiled floor he pauses for a second before taking a deep breath and stepping into the shower cubicle. He keeps the sliding glass door open. The spray from the shower will probably soak the floor and he’ll get in trouble with John, but one thing at a time. He cannot face the feeling of being locked in somewhere as well as the water. He has to pick his battles. And besides, the tiles could do with a bit of cleaning. It’s been ages since John last mopped in here.  
Hesitantly he holds a finger over the start button before clenching his eyes shut and pressing it. The water pounds down instantly, cold at first and Sherlock backs away slightly so that only his toes are exposed to the stream. His breathing has quickened and he is aware he has splayed his good hand against the wall as if to steady himself. But so far he is still able to think, he still knows where he is.   
Gradually his breathing regulates and he feels able to open his eyes. The sight of the pounding water hitting the tiles panics him a little again but it passes quickly. Hesitantly he steps forward and holds his good hand out to test the temperature. Warm, verging on hot. Perfect. No relation to the icy water he was submerged in by Moriarty’s thugs. He steps forward again and ducks his head under the stream.   
No horrific memories assault him and he feels able to relax like he was once able to. In fact when he was younger and before he met John, a hot powerful shower was the only thing able to calm down his manic energy.   
Thinking about John reminds him of why he chose to take a shower in the first place and cautiously he reaches down to take ahold of his now quite painful erection. Ahhh. Carefully he starts stroking and tugging and the pleasure begins to surge through him in steadily increasing waves. John’s face, his deep blue eyes, his chiselled torso which is always hidden from Sherlock’s eyes by the jumpers which still don’t quite fail to shroud the rippling muscles underneath.   
Sherlock’s breath quickens, this time from pleasure not horrific memories. The water cascades around him, tugging out his curls and making his hair longer so it almost reaches his shoulders.   
A moan falls from Sherlock’s lips as he remembers the feeling of John’s fingers tangling in his hair and his strokes increase in urgency. The pressure is building deliciously, he feels it rising. He imagines John’s hands, those beautiful capable hands, exploring his body, touching every inch of him. He imagines John doing what he is now doing himself and with a few more thrusts of his hips he explodes.  
‘John!’   
The shout is ripped from him before he can stop it and he sinks, knees shaking, to the smooth porcelain floor. It takes a couple of minutes before he feels strong enough to stand again and wash himself properly.  
Stepping out of the shower he rubs his towel briefly over his head making his hair stand up in all directions and then wraps the towel around his waist where it hangs low on his hipbones before opening the door.  
He has only taken a couple of steps over the threshold when he collides with John who is walking down the corridor towards the stairs leading to the living room.  
Hastily Sherlock grabs at his towel as he feels it slipping slightly and hurriedly steps away from his flatmate. Being in such close proximity to the man whose name he had only minutes ago shouted while coming is doing all sorts of odd things to his brain.   
‘Ah, John. You’re up,’ he says briskly, trying to calm his racing mind and hold onto his dignity. Something quite difficult to do when you’re wearing a towel and nothing else. 

XXXXXXXXX

John’s fogged brain can’t cope with this. He had woken up with the mother of all hangovers. There used to be a time when he could go out clubbing all night, drink double the amount he’d drunk with Justin and wake up feeling perfectly refreshed. Now it feels like something has crawled into his mouth during the night and died there. Even repeated rinses with mouthwash have only made him feel slightly better. Did he have a cigarette last night? Oh God, he did. All Justin’s fault. And then of course, there is the memory of his fantasy... Jesus, did he really do that? He feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He must have drunk a lot to make him that uninhibited.  
And now, now... he is confronted with the sight of an almost naked Sherlock. He sees his flatmate’s towel slip slightly and watches how Sherlock grabs it just in time. He feels disappointed. Those dark curls are wild and still damp from the shower. Absently he feels a surge of pride that Sherlock has clearly managed to confront his fears about water but that is almost swallowed in the raging lust currently coursing through his body. He wants nothing more in this moment than to pull Sherlock against his body, take off that damned towel, and crush his mouth against those perfect lips.  
He is too hungover to deal with this. His headache throbs against his temples and he rubs at his eyes with one hand while Sherlock rescues his towel.  
‘Ah, John. You’re up,’ his flatmate says, quite calmly given the circumstances. If only he knew what was going through John’s mind, he wouldn’t be nearly as composed. In fact he’d probably be running in the opposite direction.  
‘Yep,’ John mumbles, closing his eyes against the glaring light coming from the bathroom. ‘I’m going to the kitchen. I need tea. D’you want me to make you one?’  
‘Oh. Yes please.’ John starts in surprise. Sherlock is only ever this polite either when he really wants something or when he is feeling uncomfortable. Is he feeling as awkward as John is right now?  
‘Right. Well.’ They are talking like strangers. The tension is so thick John feels like he almost has to wade through it to reach the stairs. ‘See you down there.’  
Sherlock nods and almost runs into his bedroom. John sighs and starts descending the steps to the kitchen.  
Tea. Tea will make everything better.   
He starts boiling the kettle and stares absently out of the window while he waits. His body and mind are a seething mass of conflicting emotions. He feels transported back to his teens when he spent the best part of three years as a jumbled mess of hormones. Not for a very long time has anyone affected him as much, both physically and mentally, as Sherlock. The man has gotten under his skin so much so that nowadays it is a miracle if he can spend more than a few minutes without thinking about him.  
The kettle boils and he wanders back into the kitchen, automatically finding two mugs and making the tea. He knows as soon as Sherlock enters the room, even though as always the other man is as silent as a jungle cat. The air seems to change, the hairs on the back of his neck are prickling and he feels hyper-aware of his every movement. For God’s sake this is ridiculous. He has to get himself together or Sherlock is going to notice something is wrong, and knowing his flatmate he won’t stop until he has discovered the reason. His mind darts back to Justin’s suggestion that he start leaving hints for Sherlock, but he really doesn’t think he is ready for that yet.  
He carefully schools his features into an expression of normality he hopes will fool Sherlock and picks up the two mugs.  
‘Tea,’ he calls cheerily, turning from the counter and walking into the living room.  
Sherlock, he is relieved to see, has put some clothes on – a dark red clinging thin sweater that looks like it’s made out of some ridiculously expensive material like cashmere and dark denim jeans. His hair is still a little damp but as it dries the curls are springing back into place. John swallows and feels his pulse start to race again. It seems that now he has finally admitted his feelings about Sherlock to himself his body has decided to torture him by reacting extremely to even the sight of the other man.  
He hands Sherlock his tea, making sure his fingers don’t accidentally brush Sherlock’s, and sits down in his armchair.  
‘What are you up to today?’ he asks in what he hopes very much is a casual voice.  
‘Not much,’ Sherlock drawls, picking up the stack of cold cases from the table and placing the mug of tea down in the same movement. ‘I solved the last one yesterday. I’ve told Lestrade I’ll be running them over to him at the Yard later on today.’ He glances up at John and John thinks he sees an odd flicker in his expression as the grey eyes examine him. ‘Would you like to join me?’  
‘Yeah, sure. Not got anything else on today.’  
The voice in John’s head is warning him that this could be a very bad idea. With his heightened awareness of Sherlock, spending a lot of time in his company might have disastrous results. But then what else is he supposed to do? Avoid the consulting detective for the rest of his life? Stupid. And severely impractical considering they live with each other.  
‘John?’ He looks up and is surprised to see that Sherlock is looking distinctly uncomfortable and a little embarrassed.   
‘Yes? What is it?’  
‘I – er, do you still have my journal? Only there’s something I wanted to write in it, and I remember that Moriarty gave it to you...’ Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly. ‘You didn’t read it did you?’And then almost in the same moment he mutters, ‘No, of course you didn’t.’ John is intrigued as to how Sherlock is so sure that he hasn’t read the journal but chooses not to dwell on it. After all these months he is well aware that Sherlock often knows almost everything.  
‘Yes, it’s in my pocket, hang on...’ John stands up and starts fishing in his pocket for the small thin notebook. But there is nothing. Frowning he quickly searches his other pockets. Still nothing. Shit. Where is it?   
Sherlock is looking anxious on the couch, watching John search. John forces a casual grin onto his face. ‘Must have left it upstairs. It’s not urgent is it?’  
Sherlock frowns and pauses before replying. ‘No... not urgent. Just, have a look for it later and give it to me tomorrow. And John? Don’t read it.’  
‘I told you Sherlock, I’m not going to read it. I have absolutely no desire to read about whatever filthy experiments you’ve written about and you want to keep so secret.’ He laughs to himself, expecting Sherlock to smile too, but instead, to his surprise, the other man looks absolutely stricken, almost as if he is about to cry.  
‘Sherlock?’ John questions worriedly.  
Almost instantly Sherlock’s features smooth out and the grey eyes return to their usual cold gaze.  
‘It’s not important. I have to take a trip to the morgue – got a few things to finish up there. And I need to talk to Molly about something.’  
‘You’re sure you’re going to be okay?’ The last thing John wants to do is patronize Sherlock but he can’t seem to stop himself worrying whenever the detective goes out on his own. Even though he knows for sure that Moriarty’s is dead, that he was the one to kill him, still he worries that perhaps one of Moriarty’s many henchmen will turn up out of the blue and finish the job.   
Sherlock smiles wryly. ‘Yes, John, I am sure I will be perfectly fine.’

XXXXXXX

Sherlock hasn’t been entirely truthful with John. He doesn’t need to go to the morgue and the last thing he wants or needs to do is talk with Molly. At best her cow eyes and fluttering eyelashes while she flirts incessantly with him is annoying, at worst it’s downright unbearable.   
What he really has to do is get out of the apartment because the atmosphere between himself and John is driving him insane with confusion and lust. If he had stayed there much longer he would probably have done something incredibly stupid like throwing himself at the shorter man and passionately kissing those damnably perfect lips until he passed out from lack of air.  
And as everyone knows, Sherlock Holmes never does anything stupid.  
His mind drifts back to John’s statement: ‘I have absolutely no desire to read about whatever filthy experiments you’ve written about...’  
Filthy is just about right, he reflects. He knows that John had been talking about his usual experiments involving severed human limbs and various other debateable substances. But he hadn’t been able to stop the irrational hurt which had clamped around his heart at the words. And even though most of his observations about John in his journal had been fairly innocent there had been some... Christ. He clutches at his hair as he strides along, earning some odd looks from passersby. When he thinks about some of his later entries when his thoughts had become increasingly, erotic... yes, they had definitely been less than innocent. Filthy indeed by many people’s standards, including John’s. There is no doubt at all in his mind that if John was ever to read those entries he would be rightfully disgusted and horrified.   
And now the bloody thing could be anywhere. He is not even remotely convinced at John’s explanation it must be in his room. His one and only consolation is that it is evident John has not read it. That is obvious. John has a strong moral compass and that would prohibit him from snooping in someone’s private journal when expressly asked not to, even if he was curious about the contents.  
Sherlock finds his feet leading him towards Regent’s Park and his favourite bench by the lake. It is his preferred place to come when he is frustrated or confused. The bench in question is usually unbothered by walkers and now that Christmas is approaching the freezing air is keeping most sensible people inside.   
He wraps his scarf tighter around his throat and rubs his gloved hands together. Suddenly a novel thought occurs to him. Yes, why not? He ducks into a newsagents and emerges clutching a loaf of bread and a pack of ten cigarettes. His next stop is Café Nero where he buys a large extra strong coffee.  
He reaches the park within ten minutes and in another five he is seated at his bench. He sets the coffee on the ground beside him and opens the loaf of bread. Taking a slice he breaks it into pieces and scatters crumbs on the ground around him. Sure enough, after about a minute a tentative sparrow is hopping towards him, its head cocked anxiously, pausing every few seconds. He watches it absently.   
Soon enough it gathers enough courage to seize a crumb in its beak before fluttering off to land a few metres away to consume the food. He hasn’t fed birds in years. When was the last time? When he was six or seven probably.   
He blows on the surface of the coffee and withdraws a cigarette from the packet. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London, yes, but every now and again when he is impossibly stressed it is the only thing to calm him down now the drugs have gone. And when John isn’t available of course.  
Slowly he smokes the cigarette and sips from his coffee while watching the birds around his feet increase until there are at least twenty. He scatters another slice of bread on the ground which startles them momentarily but they are soon back, taking full advantage of the unexpected feast in the hard winter months.  
He crushes the butt of the cigarette out on the ground and lights another, taking a deep pull of coffee after the first drag. In the icy air, with a hint of snow in the breeze, completely unbothered by anyone except the birds and with a cup of hot coffee and his cigarettes, Sherlock Holmes feels close to happy.

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘There you are! I was getting worried about you! Didn’t you get my messages? I thought you wanted to go to the Yard today.’ John’s voice meets Sherlock’s ears as soon as he steps in through the living room door.  
‘Yes, I got the messages. I was thinking and couldn’t reply.’  
Sherlock finds that his decision to take a break from John and the apartment was definitely the correct one. He feels more able to converse and talk with John normally now.   
‘So are we going to the Yard or not?’ John asks, taking his empty tea mug into the kitchen and rinsing it out.  
Sherlock checks the clock on the wall. It is half past four.  
‘I suppose so,’ he sighs. ‘I need to return the cases to Lestrade at some point after all.’  
Sherlock waits impatiently by the door while John tidies the living room a little, grabs his jacket from where he threw it over his chair and pulls it on.  
As they leave the apartment John glances around at the pitch black streets twinkling with Christmas lights.  
‘I hate how it gets dark so early in winter,’ he grumbles to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s only half past four for Christ’s sakes!’  
‘Ten to five, actually,’ Sherlock replies idly without checking his watch. ‘You spent twenty minutes cleaning the apartment and getting ready.’ He doesn’t add that he actually likes the dark.  
‘Well, the lights are pretty I suppose,’ John acknowledges reluctantly, ignoring Sherlock’s snide little jab at how long he took to get ready.   
Sherlock strides to the edge of the pavement and has hailed a taxi within ten seconds. They settle themselves inside and Sherlock gives the cabbie the Yard’s address.

XXXXXXXXXX

The Yard is at least warm and brightly lit, John thinks as he makes his way through to the main office at Sherlock’s side.   
Around them people are busy working and a few acknowledge John as he passes with a curt nod or a wave. They ignore Sherlock.  
That is until their way is barred by both Anderson and Sergeant Donovan. They have reached the main office but there is no sign of Lestrade. Instead about twenty members of the force are around them, sitting at desks working industriously. They pay no attention to the fact that Sherlock and John have just walked in until Anderson starts speaking.  
‘What are you doing here freak?’ he asks in an oddly jovial tone of voice. Sally smirks at his side.  
‘I’m returning cold cases to Lestrade,’ Sherlock says stiffly. ‘Not that it is any of your business. Wife still away?’  
‘Shut up,’ Anderson hisses with a flash of his usual nastiness. Then he smiles again. He turns to John. ‘Friend of yours dropped by earlier.’  
John frowns, confused. ‘A friend of mine dropped by?’  
Anderson’s smile grows wider. ‘That’s right. Jake... James... no, no – Justin, that’s it. Says you left something at the pub last night.’ Anderson reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws what is unmistakeably Sherlock’s journal. John can just see the initials SH at the corner. At his side Sherlock makes a lunge forward but Anderson steps out of his range and shakes his finger tauntingly at the detective.  
‘Uh uh.’ To John’s great surprise Sherlock seems frozen in place. He would have expected the other man to have tackled Anderson to the ground by now. ‘It dropped out of your pocket, apparently, John,’ Anderson says to John in a conversational tone of voice. ‘He says he was too drunk last night to return it to you and besides, he didn’t know where you lived. So he dropped round here and gave it to me. I told him I’d hand it in to Lestrade and he’d make sure you got it back.’ At this point Anderson leans forward, past Sherlock who still looks like a statue. ‘But you know what... I had a look at it first. It made for very interesting reading.’  
Sherlock suddenly unfreezes. He takes a swipe at the journal again but Anderson darts back a pace.   
‘Don’t you think John has a right to know what you’ve been writing about him, Sherlock?’ he questions, pure poison lacing his tone.   
John glances at Sherlock, completely confused. The detective’s face has gone pure white, all the colour completely drained. His grey eyes are wide and... fearful? John’s confusion and curiosity deepens. What on earth has Sherlock written about him?  
‘Anderson.... please, don’t do this... give me my journal. Please.’ Sherlock’s voice is cracked and John blinks. Sherlock has hardly ever says please, and definitely not to Anderson. ‘I know you don’t like me but... think about what this will do to John.’  
‘What what will do to me? Sherlock, what’s going on?’   
Sherlock turns pained eyes on John and that stricken look is back. The entire office is silent, work forgotten as they watch the altercation. Sally’s smirk grows wider.  
‘You deserve to know, John. You deserve to know what that freak really thinks about you,’ Anderson hisses. A cold horror is clutching at John’s heart. Sherlock must have written about how he secretly thinks John is as plebeian and pedestrian as everyone else or something like that. Suddenly he can hardly breathe.  
Anderson flips open the journal and starts to read in a loud, carrying voice.  
‘ “It turns out that I am attracted to John. John looks so alive when he is taking action... John was flushed and breathing hard, and for some reason he was endlessly fascinating to me...”’ Anderson laughs nastily amid sniggers from the onlookers most of whom either hate or simply don’t understand Sherlock. John can’t say anything. Can’t move. Anderson carries on.  
‘It gets better... “I’ve found myself watching John, the way his jumpers pull tight across his muscles... It’s getting harder to resist the urges I have to touch him. Everywhere.”’ Anderson sniggers again and carries on, ‘ “My dreams have become increasingly erotic. Most mornings I wake with an aching erection and it is John Watson who has put it there. I am worried he will notice how many more showers I am taking and wonder why... His lips seem to beg me to kiss them, I want to clutch him to me and memorise every inch of him. I want to grind against him until we are both hard and panting...”’ Anderson shuts the journal, his eyes glittering with a savage triumph. ‘There’s a lot more, John, but those were the choicest selections. Suffice to say the freak you inexplicably live with apparently spends his whole time wanking off over depraved thoughts of you. If you think about it, it’s probably actually a form of abuse.’  
There is silence in the office. Nobody speaks. John is only hazily aware of Sherlock turning an anguished face to him, can barely hear the detective as he brokenly says his name.  
‘J-John?’  
He can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t speak. The revelations in Sherlock’s journal have been too much, almost like it’s shortcircuited his brain and his mind now needs a reboot. If he had been in full control of his mental faculties he would have been horrified as he sees the tears gather in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and trickle down his pale cheeks, would have reached out as Sherlock whirls around and runs out of the office, his black coat, dark curls and blue scarf billowing out behind him. If he had been himself he would never have let Sherlock leave without responding to him in some way.  
‘What in God’s name is going on?’ A booming voice rings through the office. Lestrade is standing in the doorway and his words bring John to his senses. Dazedly he shakes his head and his eyes clear as he stares around at the silent office. He takes in Anderson’s cheshire cat grin, sees Sally sniggering into her fist. He notices the shaking shoulders as other members of the Yard try to stifle their giggles. He sees Lestrade standing solid and unmoveable at the door, dark brown eyes both angry and confused. But there is something he notices more than all of that. The absence of a tall, slender, grey-eyed, dark-haired consulting detective by his side. At that thought his mind replays the events of the past minute or so. Sherlock turning to him, eyes shimmering with tears yet also a slight hope. Hears his name fall from those lips again, ‘J-John?’ Remembers that he stood dumb and silent, staring back at Sherlock but not really seeing him. Remembers the silent tears which had started streaking Sherlock’s colourless face as John neither replies nor responds in any other way. Sherlock running out of the office.  
Shit. What has he done? Sherlock must have thought... he must have... Shit. John’s face flushes with a furious anger as he turns back to Anderson.  
Before the forensic scientist can even speak, John’s fist connects solidly with his nose. John has not held back on the force in the punch. Anderson flies backwards and lands against a desk in a crumpled heap. John strides over to him, grabs him by his jacket, bodily hoists him up before punching him again and then letting him drop back to the floor.  
‘You absolute bastard, Anderson.You are pure filth,’ he spits out. ‘You’re not a man, you’re a spineless coward who enjoys humiliating people for fun and one day I hope someone’s going to teach you a proper lesson.’  
He spins around and makes his way to Sally who steps back a little, wilting under his livid stare. He moves right up into her face.  
‘I don’t hit women, but by God if I did, you would be the first one on the floor Sergeant Donovan. Strange – I thought people joined the police because they wanted to help people. You prove me wrong. You’re absolutely disgusting... what you and Anderson did just then was nothing less than crude schoolyard bullying.’  
John widens his arms as he stares around at the rest of his audience. ‘All of you – in fact! Sniggering and laughing like that. Do you not realise Sherlock Holmes has feelings? Feelings he has tried to hide for too long because of people like you. Well, congratulations. I hope you all feel happy with yourselves. Watching someone being humiliated is fun is it?’ In the midst of his fury he notices that several people are averting their eyes from his, ashamed. It doesn’t make him any less angry. He laughs bitterly. ‘And you have the nerve to call him a psychopath. In my opinion you can struggle along in your ineptitude without Sherlock from now on and good luck to you.’ He strides over to the door before whipping around once again. ‘And since you all take such obvious pleasure in knowing everyone else’s secrets I’ll tell you one of my own. I’m bisexual and I fancy the pants off Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I’m well on my way to being in love with him. He doesn’t know. So in fact, perhaps I should be thanking you. Because in your twisted way you have let me know that my feelings are reciprocated.’  
Remembering something he marches back over to Anderson who is still on the floor, mopping at the blood pouring from his nose with his sleeve, and who flinches as John approaches. John laughs derisively and merely bends down to snatch up Sherlock’s diary before scooping up the manila files Sherlock dropped and thrusting them at Lestrade. ‘Sherlock solved all your cases. Enjoy it – it won’t be happening again for awhile, if ever.’  
He runs out of the office intent only on finding a cab and getting back to Sherlock as quickly as possible.


	17. Tension

Chapter Seventeen

Tension

John’s pounding footsteps on the pavement match the thundering in his ears as his blood courses through his body. He keeps an eye out for taxis but his main concern is to get to Sherlock and to get to him now. His mind keeps replaying the image of Sherlock’s broken expression and the stumbling ‘J-John?’ He can’t bear it.  
He thinks of Anderson’s smug face before it he’d punched him and the fury makes him run just that little bit faster. He isn’t out of breath, not even close. Since it had become obvious to him that he was going to be spending a great deal of time pounding the streets along with Sherlock he had made sure to keep himself fit and hit the gym every once in awhile. To his great delight he found that his military training allowed him to resume his previous fitness fairly easily so that now a run from Scotland Yard to Baker Street is similar to a leisurely walk in the park for him.  
Very shortly he reaches Baker Street and fumbles wildly in his leather jacket for his keys. Finding them he slots them into the lock with shaking hands and launches himself up the stairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s startled cry as he flies past her.  
‘Sherlock!’ he shouts as he reaches their living room. It is dark, just as he left it. Whirling around he quickly scans the kitchen, ascertains that Sherlock is not hiding under the table, and feverishly runs up the stairs to check the upstairs floors.  
Two minutes later he is back in the living room, beginning to panic. Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John should have known he wouldn’t come back to Baker Street, not in the state he was in.  
‘John? John, what on earth has happened now?’ Mrs Hudson’s worried voice floats across the living room and John turns wildly, hands raking at his sandy hair.  
‘Sherlock...’ is all he manages to gasp out.   
‘I should have known,’ Mrs Hudson tuts. ‘He’s the only one able to get you in such a state. Do you want me to put on the kettle?’  
‘Not now, Mrs Hudson!’ he snaps irritably, panic beginning to truly settle in. She starts and then smiles understandingly.  
‘I’m sorry, you’re obviously upset. What’s Sherlock done now?’  
‘It’s not what Sherlock has done, it’s what I have done. And that fucking Anderson at the Yard.’  
‘Language, John,’ Mrs Hudson says automatically. ‘And that’s a bit of a turn-up isn’t it? It’s usually Sherlock who is at fault in these sorts of situations.’  
John breathes deeply for a couple of seconds and then turns to face Mrs Hudson, his throat tight and constricted by panic and emotion. ‘Mrs Hudson – do you have any idea where Sherlock goes when he’s upset? Any idea at all?’  
‘Just how upset is he?’ Mrs Hudson asks.   
‘What in hell has that got to do with anything?’ John snaps.  
‘Calm down, dear. If he’s upset at something he’s done, or confused or frustrated he generally goes to Regent’s Park I believe. He mentioned it to me once in passing.’  
‘And if that isn’t the cause?’ John asks, forcing his voice to calm.  
Mrs Hudson blinks. ‘I’ve only seen Sherlock truly, honestly hurt once before in all the time I’ve known him. Is that what’s happened tonight?’  
John cannot even make himself speak, so instead he nods. Mrs Hudson clutches a hand to her chest.  
‘Well, in that case, he goes home. Back to the house he and Mycroft grew up in. When I saw him in that state all he wanted was his mother.’  
John thinks. Very rarely has Sherlock talked about his mother, but when he has it has always been with an affection he hardly ever shows to anybody else. John has never met the woman but in the frequent arguments between Mycroft and Sherlock she is always held up as the trump card and that alone gives her a certain importance. And besides, wouldn’t it make sense that if someone had been hurt as deeply as Sherlock had been they would run to their mother? He’s a fool for not having thought of it before.  
As he is processing this information there is a loud car horn from the street below. John spins back to the window and peers out, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Barely visible, idling at the pavement, is a dark car. John never thought he would be this happy to see Mycroft.  
‘Thank fuck,’ he exclaims, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s startled huff.  
He takes the stairs two at a time and within ten seconds has reached the pavement, the door to 221B Baker Street slamming shut behind him. He wrenches open the door of the car and throws himself into the back seat. To his surprise he finds himself sitting next to Mycroft himself. Anthea, or whatever she is calling herself today, is on the opposite side, texting on her Blackberry and shows no interest or awareness of John’s hasty arrival in the car.  
‘What did you do to Sherlock?’ Mycroft asks in an icy tone John has hardly ever heard from him.  
‘I – it – well, it’s a long story. How did you know I’d done anything anyway?’  
Mycroft examines him for a moment before speaking. ‘I received a call from Mummy not too long ago. Apparently Sherlock barged his way in...’ Mycroft adopts a slightly higher pitched voice, clearly an imitation of his mother, ‘... “in an awful state” and has locked himself in his room, refusing to speak to her or anybody else.’  
A stab of guilt at his guts. ‘How do you know it’s something I’ve done?’ John asks, knowing the question is futile and pointless. Mycroft and Sherlock, although different in almost every way, do after all share the same genes and Mycroft’s powers of intuition are just as powerful if not more so than his younger brother’s.  
‘Because you’re the only one with the power to hurt my brother so badly he chooses refuge in Mummy’s house,’ Mycroft states coldly. ‘Now what happened?’  
‘With respect, Mycroft, I think that’s between me and Sherlock. All you need to know is that I have to get to him as soon as possible.’  
Mycroft frowns but chooses not to question John. ‘Indeed. That’s why we’re on our way there right now. It’s not far.’  
The car speeds through the dark streets of London but for John it cannot ever go fast enough.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Shortly the car slows and pulls into a gravel drive, judging by the crunching noise made by the wheels. It has barely drawn to a full halt when John flings open the door and runs up to the entrance of the house, which, he absently notices is large, Victorian and obviously very expensive. He is closely followed by Mycroft. Anthea follows at a slower pace, finally putting her Blackberry away.  
‘John.’ Mycroft’s hand lands on his shoulder as he is about to ring the bell. ‘Perhaps it is better to at least introduce you to Mummy briefly before you go charging after Sherlock. I think you’ll find you’ll make a much better impression that way and she deserves to know what’s going on.’  
John instinctively wants to reply that being polite is the least of his concerns right now, but the still rational part of his brain has to concede that Mycroft is right. He nods sharply, but it seems to satisfy Mycroft who rings the bell and taps his umbrella on the ground.  
After a few seconds the heavy wooden door is pulled open and a small, fairly elderly woman wearing a dark uniform and a white apron is revealed.  
‘Evening, Mrs Jones,’ Mycroft says politely, nodding to her. ‘This is John Watson, Sherlock’s current flatmate.’  
John manages a taut smile and a curt, ‘Nice to meet you.’  
The woman smiles at him briefly and then ushers them in, her expression anxious.  
‘Thank heavens you’re here Master Mycroft. Your mother is driving herself wild with worry. Master Sherlock turned up earlier and we haven’t been able to get him out of his room. He’s not talking to either of us.’  
Mycroft opens his mouth to reply when a strident voice carries through the hall.  
‘Mycroft, darling? Is that you?’  
‘Yes, Mummy, it’s me,’ Mycroft replies, allowing Mrs Jones to help him out of his coat. John realises that the woman is approaching him, presumably with the intention of helping him out of his jacket, but he shakes his head slightly at her and she retreats.  
A tall, slim woman emerges from a doorway to the right. She is impeccably dressed in flowing black suit trousers and a pale pink silk shirt. An elegant pearl necklace is around her neck, with matching studs in her ears. Her dark hair, shot through with streaks of grey, is wound up in a sophisticated bun and her brown eyes are glistening with tears. Her face, though lined with age and currently creased with worry is still beautiful. John places her at about sixty years old.  
‘Oh, Mycroft, I’ve been driving myself quite mad with worry. You know what he gets like when he winds himself up like this.’  
Mycroft nods and embraces his mother briefly before waving an arm at John.  
‘Mummy, this is John Watson. He’s Sherlock’s flatmate, as I’m sure you know. John, this is my mother, Augusta Holmes.’  
Augusta turns a dark-eyed stare on John and smiles warmly, though shakily. She approaches and clasps his hand.  
‘Of course I know who you are. Although my phone calls with Sherlock are sadly far too rare he always talks about you. I’m so glad you’ve come, if anyone can get him out of his room perhaps you can.’  
‘It’s lovely to meet you Mrs Holmes, and I’m afraid to say I’m the reason he’s in his room to begin with. Inadvertently.’ Every nerve is John’s body is itching to run upstairs and take Sherlock in his arms but he is aware the pleasantries have to be taken care of first. Particularly in such a family as the Holmes’, who evidently still have domestic servants, as is indicated by Mrs Jones who is clearly the housekeeper.  
Augusta Holmes hesitates before smiling again. ‘Well, then, you’re here and that’s the most important thing. Shall I show you upstairs? Mycroft, be a darling and wait in the drawing room, will you? There’s whisky in the sideboard. Anthea, feel free to help yourself as well, of course.’  
‘Thank you, Augusta,’ Anthea replies, following Mycroft into the drawing room. She is obviously a frequent visitor as they are on first-name terms.  
John forces himself not to leap up the stairs and instead remains level with Augusta whose mouth is pinched with anxiety and who does not speak.   
They make their way through several corridors and up a couple of other flights of steps until John is thoroughly confused. Eventually they stop outside a heavy wooden door. Augusta sighs deeply.  
‘This is Sherlock’s room,’ she says in a hushed voice. ‘Good luck, John. Please make sure he’s okay, won’t you?’  
‘Of course I will,’ John replies.  
She nods and suddenly wraps her arms around him in a brief embrace before making her way back downstairs.  
John sinks to the lush carpet, abruptly feeling weak. He is here, in Sherlock’s childhood home, outside Sherlock’s bedroom...  
Steeling himself he raps smartly on the door. There is no reply. He hadn’t expected one.  
‘Sherlock, it’s John,’ he calls softly. On the other side of the wood he hears a choked sob, which is quickly hushed. Sherlock can hear him then. ‘Sherlock, open the door. Please.’ Again there is no response. John sighs heavily, wondering how to proceed. Even though he has been in numerous relationships there has been nothing like this. One thing he knows is that he doesn’t want to reveal his feelings to Sherlock through a plank of wood, without even being able to see the other man. No, that has to be done face to face. So first of all, he has to get Sherlock to open the door.  
‘Sherlock, if you don’t let me in, I’m going to break in and I doubt your mother will be very happy with you because I’ll tell her it was all your fault for being so stubborn. Stop being so childish.’ Harsh, but perhaps that is the best way to get through to him. John is, after all, one of the only people who Sherlock will tolerate telling him off. Suddenly wondering if Sherlock is worried that his mother and Mycroft are also with him, John speaks again. ‘Mycroft and your mother are downstairs, in case you were wondering. We’re alone, you don’t have to worry about that... Open the door Sherlock, I know you can hear me. This is ridiculous. Don’t think about what Anderson did. He’s an idiot of the highest order, you know that already.’ He pauses. ‘I punched him, you know. Twice. I’ll probably get arrested for assaulting a police officer once Lestrade gets over his shock.’  
The silence is starting to seriously worry John. He hasn’t heard anything from the other side other than that first hushed sob. He knocks on the door again, harder this time.   
‘Sherlock I am going to sit here all night if I have to. You know I will. It will save a lot of time if you just open the door now.’  
He pauses again. Was that a noise? A sort of shuffling sound reaches his ears. Holding his breath, hardly able to believe it, he hears the lock of the door click. Another shuffling sound. No words.  
Slowly John heaves himself to his feet and grasps the doorknob. He takes a few deep breaths and twists. It gives easily under his hand and he pushes it open.  
The room inside is dim. The large windows opposite are shrouded in heavy drapes. The only light comes from a lamp which is standing in the corner. John blinks as his eyes adjust from the brightness of the hallway. Sherlock’s bedroom is huge, he can see that immediately. What looks like a lab is constructed in the bottom half of the room to the right and John smiles as he sees it. Typical. It is, of course, empty of experiments but all the apparatus is still set up. A bookshelf stands against one wall, crammed with what look like heavy-duty science, maths and other non-fiction volumes. The walls are bare, with no posters to be seen.   
His attention turns to the other half of the room, the half to his left. Deep in the recesses there is the shadowy figure of a huge double bed. His attention is immediately drawn to the huddled figure at the far end of it, hunched up against the headboard.  
John knows better than to hurtle straight over there. Instead he notices a squashy looking chair standing almost right next to the bed and carefully he shuts the door behind him, crosses to the chair and sinks into it, resisting the temptation to look at Sherlock. Instead he gazes straight ahead of him. It is virtually silent, but now that he is actually in the room he can hear the muffled sobs emanating from Sherlock every now and again and the laboured breathing. His heart constricts in his chest. Feeling that he ought to say something, and also because he cannot listen to the sound of Sherlock’s distress any longer, he speaks.  
‘Thanks for letting me in. The carpet out there is comfortable and everything but I wouldn’t want to be left out there all night.’ He forces a laugh and then takes a breath. ‘Anderson’s a bastard, Sherlock. That’s all there is to it. But we already knew that.’  
There is a shuddering breath from the bed and then, for the first time, Sherlock speaks. ‘What are you doing here John?’ His voice is rough and cracked, a verbal proof of the tears he has shed since leaving the Yard. ‘How can you even stand to be in the same room as me? Is this some sort of misplaced pity?’  
Feeling irrationally happy because he’s finally been given something to work with, John has to make himself pause and organise what he’s going to say next. This conversation may be the most important one he’s ever had with anyone. He cannot mess it up by going too fast. And Sherlock Holmes, the man who never cries, has never been more fragile. It is clear to John that his self-esteem is hanging by a thread. John would never be able to forgive himself if he was responsible for snapping that cord. Hasn’t he already done enough damage tonight without adding that to it?  
‘I’m here because Anderson doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Sherlock, listen to me. Really listen, okay?’ There is no audible response but John dimly sees Sherlock’s slim shoulders move in a shrugging motion and knows the other man is listening closely. ‘I can’t deny that I was shocked earlier. When I heard what you’d written in your journal I was literally stunned.’ There is another sob and a sniff from the bed. ‘That’s why I didn’t respond to you, I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even move. It was too much to take in. And when I came back to reality you’d gone and I remembered what had happened and...’ John’s voice breaks slightly. ‘Sherlock, I could have killed myself! I should never have let you leave. Not like that. Believe me I let the entire Yard know exactly what I thought of them. I may have broken Anderson’s nose.’ He pauses for a second. ‘No, scratch that, I definitely broke Anderson’s nose.’ He falls silent again before fishing in his jacket. ‘I’ve got your journal here.’ He reaches across and places it carefully on the covers of the bed.   
‘You might as well keep it,’ Sherlock mutters harshly. ‘It has many more depraved insights into my thoughts about you, as Anderson would no doubt put it. Seeing as how it is more than obvious that you’re not suitably disgusted yet, perhaps you should read on.’ His voice is full of self-loathing and John clenches his fists.  
‘Sherlock, you’re not listening to me. Why would I be here if I was disgusted? And no...’ he says before Sherlock can interrupt. ‘It is not out of a sense of “misguided pity”, you idiot. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you.’  
‘Why?’ Sherlock asks, his voice breaking again.   
‘Sherlock, how is it you don’t know how beautiful you are? Not just physically, but mentally? Is it a result of all the childhood taunts you’ve hinted about to me? You know what, I actually should have shaken Anderson’s hand instead of punching him.’  
‘Yes, for letting you know the thoughts I’ve had about you and allowing you time to pack and get the hell out of Baker Street.’  
‘No, for letting me know that you return my feelings. God knows how long we would have danced around it had he not done that.’  
‘You... what?’  
John smirks. ‘You heard me perfectly well Sherlock. You have hearing like a bloody bat.’  
‘Just because I heard you doesn’t mean I comprehend you.’  
John risks getting up and moving over to the bed. He hears an indrawn hiss of breath as he kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the mattress and sees that Sherlock hunches further into himself and moves closer to the wall. But he’s had enough of keeping his distance. Now that he knows that Sherlock’s desires mirror his own, and God in heaven how in hell is he lucky enough to have that?, he isn’t going to spend longer than he has to separated from Sherlock.  
He shuffles over and down the bed until he is sitting directly opposite Sherlock. The detective, who has seemed to realise that he cannot physically get any further away from John, keeps his head determinedly away from John’s searching gaze.  
‘Sherlock look at me.’ Sherlock remains gazing steadfastedly away. ‘Look at me.’ He lets a hint of the captain into his tone and even Sherlock Holmes cannot disobey. John sucks in a breath as he looks Sherlock full in the face.  
Desolate. That’s the only word which comes to mind. Those fantastic eyes are rimmed with red and the lashes are moist and clumped together. John can still see tears on the pale cheeks, staining the high cheekbones. The full lips are quivering. Never, not even when he rescued him from Moriarty’s clutches, has John seen his flatmate fall apart so completely. How is it possible that he, ordinary John Watson, has the power to make this remarkable man so vulnerable? He feels the responsibility deep within his heart and makes a silent promise to himself never ever to abuse the power Sherlock has inadvertently given him. He makes a promise to himself to earn Sherlock’s love.  
‘You have to know what I’m saying now is the truth. You know me, Sherlock. You know when anyone is lying. Observe me. Deduce what I’m saying. You won’t find a lie. When Anderson read out what was in your journal I was shocked. You saw that, you know I didn’t reply when you said my name, and I will never forgive myself for that. But what you didn’t see, what you clearly haven’t seen, is how my feelings towards you have changed recently. It’s been growing for awhile. I always thought I was straight, I’d never even contemplated an attraction to another man. Never. Not until you. It was only when I had that drink with Justin last night that my feelings were made abundantly clear to me. That was when I had the confidence to admit it to myself. Sherlock... I can’t stop thinking about you. You fascinate me. You captivate me. Everything about you is amazing.’ John reaches out without even thinking what he is doing and clasps Sherlock’s pale hands between his own. ‘Sherlock, you have to believe me.’  
‘Why,’ Sherlock asks and John is horrified to see more tears trickling down his cheeks. ‘Why should I believe you? You are straight John. I’ve... I’ve had these feelings for you for so long now, almost ever since I met you. I’ve hidden them for months. You have no idea of the torment I’ve been in. Every date you went on with Sarah, every time you ogled a woman on television... Why on earth would you suddenly decide you feel the same way? You can’t feel the same way. I’m rude, I’m arrogant, I’m cold and heartless, I leave experiments all over the place, I keep human remains in the fridge and play the violin at unsocial hours...’   
John cuts him off. ‘Sherlock – you’re forgetting something. I know all that. I’ve lived with you for months, remember? Why in hell do you think you’re so unworthy to be loved? I’ve seen all your bad traits, and I’m not going to lie, there are a lot of them, but there are so many good ones as well. You help people, albeit in a slightly emotionless way, you put your brilliant mind to work solving crimes and putting away the bad guys. To many you may seem heartless but to those who you care about you you’re affectionate and kind. And also... life with you is never boring. I need your passion, I need your fire in my life. Don’t you see that that is the most attractive thing in the world to me? You’re beautiful in every way, Sherlock.’  
Sherlock is shaking his head, clutching at his curls wildly. John is alarmed to hear the mutters spilling from his lips. ‘No, no, no, no... freak, I’m not... nobody can...’ He raises his eyes to John’s once more. ‘Anderson is right, John! Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? I’m a freak! I’m abnormal! I simply cannot comprehend how you can feel a romantic attachment towards me. I’ve found it hard enough to understand why you remained my flatmate. Most people tell me to piss off the moment they meet me. You were the exception. I’m just... I’m so confused, John.’ The tears increase and he rubs his eyes harshly with his sleeve. ‘I feel so weak when I’m around you, how do you hold this power over me? I don’t want you to have this power! My mind is the most important thing to me and you have wrecked it! I can’t think straight!’  
His cries tear at John’s soul and the doctor has to blink back the tears. There is one thing he has to do. He has to convince Sherlock that his feelings are real.  
‘Sherlock, I’m going to do something. Will you let me? Will you trust me?’  
Sherlock peers at him through tear-drenched eyes. There is a long pause. John remains exactly where he is, steadfast, cross-legged in front of Sherlock. Eventually Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly.  
Slowly, very slowly John leans forward. He pauses when his face is only about a centimetre from Sherlock’s. He is so close he can feel Sherlock’s breath blow against his cheek in erratic gusts. He can almost hear the pounding of the other man’s heart. He can see each individual clump of eyelash, laced with moisture.  
‘Do you trust me, Sherlock?’ he whispers. There is the barest hesitation and then the dark head nods again.   
John reaches out and cups Sherlock’s angular face in his hands. Sherlock’s skin is icy cold and John can feel the protruding cheekbones under the pads of his fingers. He moves his fingers in slow circular motions and then leans forward and presses a gentle kiss against one cold cheek. He feels Sherlock’s breath hitch and smiles slightly. He can taste Sherlock’s flesh, taste the slight salty flavour of tears.  
‘John,’ Sherlock breathes, his voice trembling. John smiles and moves to the other cheek bestowing another feathery light kiss. Absently he notices that Sherlock’s good hand is fisting itself in the covers of the bed. He tilts his head to a different angle and gently nips at Sherlock’s delicate earlobe. Sherlock gasps. John’s lips travel slowly down the endless pale column of Sherlock’s throat, feeling the pulse quicken under his questioning mouth. He has waited what seems like forever to do this and as he catalogues Sherlock’s hitching breaths and barely stifled moans he revels in the knowledge that he is making the detective fall apart, only this time in the best of ways rather than the worst. Slowly, intimately he kisses Sherlock’s forehead before pulling back slightly. Sherlock’s eyes have fluttered closed and his breathing is shallow and shaky.   
‘John,’ he moans again. ‘Please.’   
John takes a deep breath before slowly, finally, meeting Sherlock’s lips with his own.  
The first touch is delicate and gentle. Even though every nerve John has is thrilling and screaming at him to move faster, to take and taste, John forces himself to go slowly. Sherlock’s lips on his... it is more than he ever dreamed. It is bliss. They are soft and full and John moves his hands from Sherlock’s face to tangle his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  
Sherlock moans slightly against him and the sound vibrates through their joined mouths, making John’s cock twitch in his trousers. John carefully sucks at Sherlock’s bottom lip a little and groans as the other man sighs and opens his mouth slightly, allowing John access. Their lips move against each other, tasting and testing. John feels Sherlock hesitantly reach to put his arms around his waist, but at the last second they fall to the covers of the bed. John isn’t having that, isn’t having Sherlock feel like he has to censure his own desires. Growling against Sherlock’s lips he removes his hands reluctantly from that thick dark hair and firmly places Sherlock’s arms around his waist. Sherlock remains a little hesitant at first but soon John feels Sherlock’s muscles tighten and his grip become stronger. The heat grows in John and he feels his erection start to throb. Ridiculous, after just a kiss. But having Sherlock’s mouth on his, being able to feel him like this... it’s beyond description. Soon, after about a minute of leisurely kissing, of lips slipping and moving against each other, John feels that he has to pull away. He has to slow down. His erection is now straining against his jeans, on the verge of becoming painful and he doesn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock, not with the delicate mental state the other man is in.  
He pulls away and smiles as Sherlock dazedly opens his eyes.   
‘Believe me now?’ John mutters hoarsely.  
Sherlock swallows and blinks up at John. ‘You mean... you really aren’t disgusted? You actually... like me?’  
John rolls his eyes. ‘Sherlock if that kiss wasn’t enough to convince you, you are clearly not a genius, you are an idiot. And just to make a hundred percent sure you believe me...’ Slowly John moves forward so he is almost lying on his front and he presses his erection into Sherlock’s leg. The other man’s eyes grow wide and his pupils blow with arousal.  
‘Does that convince you? I wouldn’t have that reaction to you if I were straight, would I?’  
‘N-no,’ Sherlock stutters, automatically thrusting upwards against John’s erection. The doctor gasps and bites his lip.  
‘No, we can’t do that, Sherlock. We have to move slowly.’  
‘Why?’ Sherlock whines almost petulantly. John smiles at the abrupt change of mood in the detective.  
‘Because right at this moment you’re the most important person in the world to me and I want to make sure I do this right. I want to woo you, date you, court you... take your pick.’ John takes a deep breath as he straightens up into his previous cross-legged position and stares into Sherlock’s grey eyes. ‘I don’t want to fuck this up Sherlock. Particularly as I just told half the Yard that I was well on my way to being in love with you.’  
Sherlock’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You told them that?’  
‘I did. Pretty much right after I punched Anderson’s lights out.’  
‘I still can’t believe you did that,’ Sherlock muses, laughing softly. The sound is like music to John’s ears and he loves the way Sherlock’s lips, still reddened from the kiss, quirk upwards. ‘I would have loved to have seen it.’  
‘Well, you can see the evidence of it if you want. His nose was literally gushing when I left.’ John pauses. ‘Oh, and I might have told Lestrade that he would be lucky to receive your help in any further cases, whether cold or current. I’m sorry that I spoke for you, I was just so... furious. They had no right to treat you like that.’  
‘This is quite a new thing for me, John Watson,’ Sherlock murmurs his eyes fixed on John’s. ‘Having someone fight for my honour... such as it is. And don’t worry, I have no wish to return to the Yard anytime soon. Having you... here...’ his voice peters out and he traces a finger down John’s cheek, hesitantly as though he still can’t believe he has the right to touch. John shivers and clutches Sherlock’s hand to his face, pressing it tightly. ‘That’s enough for me,’ Sherlock finishes throatily.  
‘Come here,’ John says, straightening his legs so that they are splayed straight out either side of Sherlock’s waist.   
The other man hesitates before slowly shifting forwards so that he is enveloped in John’s arms. John winds his arms around Sherlock’s back and clutches him to his chest. He feels Sherlock’s head fall to rest against his shoulder and he presses a kiss into the dark curls. They remain in that position for awhile, drinking in the feel of each other. John can finally run his fingers over every muscle in Sherlock’s back without feeling guilty. He is gentle, remembering the still healing wounds, but Sherlock’s small sighs of contentment reassure him that the other man is enjoying the touch.  
‘We should probably head downstairs at some point,’ John mutters, absently twirling a curl of Sherlock’s hair around his fingers. It is something which may quickly become a fetish with him. He never believed anybody’s hair could feel so good.  
Sherlock groans indistinctly against his shoulder and buts his head against John’s hand, wanting more friction against his curls.   
‘God, and I used to think you were like a jungle cat,’ John murmurs. ‘You’re more like a jungle kitten.’  
‘What?’ Sherlock asks, pulling away and gazing at John.  
‘Nothing. We really should go down. They’ll be worried about you.’  
‘Doubtful,’ Sherlock huffs, before his eyes flick hesitantly down to John’s lips. John smiles, half-sadly.  
‘Sherlock – if you want something from me, just do it. If I don’t want it, I’ll stop you, but don’t ever feel like you have to stop yourself following what you want.’  
‘I can do... anything?’ Sherlock queries.  
‘That’s right.’  
Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s lips again and he leans forward and presses his mouth against John’s. His hands move upwards to comb through John’s hair as he kisses him leisurely.  
A few seconds later they break apart.   
‘Downstairs?’ Sherlock asks reluctantly as if he is hoping desperately the answer will be no.  
‘Downstairs,’ John agrees heavily, shuffling away from Sherlock, already missing the contact.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John relies on Sherlock’s knowledge of the house to get back to the hall, as he would have had no idea.  
‘Your house is huge,’ he marvels, smiling at Sherlock. The detective grins back.   
‘Yes, my parents never did anything by halves. I believe this house is valued in the region of one and a half million, although Mummy would never sell it.’  
‘Well, it is beautiful,’ John murmurs, fully appreciating for the first time the lavish and ornate portraits on the walls, the elaborate sculptures and the fine old beams criss-crossing the ceiling. Details he hadn’t had the chance to notice in his haste to reach Sherlock.  
They gain the hall and cross to the door of the drawing room. John glances at Sherlock and reaches out his hand. Sherlock gives him a blinding smile and takes it. Looking at their interlinked fingers – white, long and delicate contrasting with tanned, short and strong – John grins and pushes the door open.


	18. A Tentative Beginning

Chapter Eighteen

A Tentative Beginning

Augusta Holmes’s cry of, ‘Sherlock!’ greets them as they cross the threshold into the drawing-room, Sherlock’s hand still clasped in John’s. John smiles at the detective and gently urges him forward.  
Sherlock moves to meet his mother who throws her arms around him. ‘Darling, don’t scare me like that ever again! Do you understand me?’   
‘Yes, Mummy,’ Sherlock mutters, patting at her back awkwardly. John has to stifle a smirk. Sherlock Holmes may be an enigmatic, cryptic, bonafide genius but even he, like almost everybody else in the world, is reduced back to the little boy he once was when in the presence of his mother.  
‘Yes, Sherlock,’ Mycroft drawls, getting up from a sofa across the room, a tumbler of whisky clasped in his hand. ‘How many times have I told you about making Mummy worry? It really is incredibly selfish of you.’  
Sherlock pulls away from his mother a little and glares at his older brother.  
‘Oh do shut up, Mycroft,’ he snaps irritably. ‘You get more pompous every day and that really is saying something since you were pompous from birth.’  
‘If having a respect for other people’s feelings means I’m pompous, then yes, you are completely right,’ Mycroft retorts, a hint of childish fury in his voice. John rubs at his temples, feeling the start of another headache.  
‘How’s the diet coming along?’ Sherlock asks, changing tack in a split second. ‘Strange, I thought the whole point of them was to lose weight not find it again.’  
‘Boys!’ Augusta snaps in a ringing voice as Mycroft takes a vaguely threatening step towards Sherlock. ‘Please stop bickering. You’ve been in the house together for less than an hour, and we have guests to consider.’ She turns to John, a blinding smile obliterating her previous annoyed expression.   
‘Sit down, John and make yourself comfortable. Sherlock, where are your manners? You haven’t offered John a drink.’  
John, perching on the corner cushions of the nearest sofa, glances up. ‘Oh, no Mrs Holmes, really... I’m fine...’  
‘Please call me Augusta, John, and nonsense. Of course you must have a drink.’ Sherlock, making his way over to the drinks cabinet rattles off a list of virtually every spirit, liqueur and soft drink known to man before turning expectantly to John. Mycroft, sitting across the room from John, tuts softly to himself and raises an eyebrow at his younger brother who comprehensively ignores him.  
John, who doesn’t really want alcohol due to the fact he has only just recovered from his vicious hangover, pauses for a second. Although he would really like to just have a cup of tea he imagines he is probably going to need something stronger if he is going to get through this impromptu evening with Sherlock’s family.  
‘A beer would be great,’ he says eventually. ‘Thanks, Sherlock.’  
‘You’re welcome, John,’ Sherlock replies, with a glare to Mycroft which clearly says See? I can be polite. ‘Mummy? Would you like another?’ Augusta shakes her head slightly.  
‘Oh no thank you, darling. I’m fine for the moment.’ Sherlock busies himself with pouring John’s beer and fetching himself a small glass of white wine.  
‘So, John,’ Augusta says, settling herself into an armchair and throwing one leg over the other daintily. ‘Sherlock tells me you’re a doctor?’  
John nods, and takes his pint from Sherlock who proceeds to sit next to him on the sofa, as close as he can possibly get without actually sitting in John’s lap. John grins and then turns his attention to Augusta.  
‘Yes, that’s right. I work as a GP nowadays but initially I was an army medic.’  
Augusta’s face radiates interest. ‘How fascinating! Frightening too, I imagine.’ John nods and almost absently his hand finds its way to the old bullet wound in his shoulder, rubbing at it distractedly. After a few seconds he is aware that Sherlock has gently grasped his wrist and is rubbing small circles into the delicate flesh.   
He feels the tension in his shoulders dissipate and smiles gratefully at Sherlock as Augusta carries on talking.  
‘I always had an idea that my boys would be doctors,’ she says distantly. ‘Instead one has a position in the British Government which I don’t even understand and the other spends the majority of his time running around London at night after dangerous criminals.’ She sighs deeply and then seems to cheer up. ‘Still, at least I know that Sherlock now has a trained soldier running around with him. That makes me feel a bit better.’  
John laughs and flushes. ‘To be honest, Mrs Holmes...’ he begins, before catching the look in the woman’s eyes, ‘... Augusta,’ he corrects himself. ‘To be honest, it’s usually Sherlock saving me from running straight into a trap or something.’  
‘Oh, don’t be so modest, John,’ Mycroft drawls from his position on the opposite sofa. ‘You have a great deal of skill in dangerous situations. Doesn’t he, Anthea?’ Anthea glances up from her Blackberry.  
‘Oh, yes,’ she says, nodding her head, her dark hair falling over her eyes. John is fairly certain she has absolutely no idea what they are talking about but has learnt from experience that it is usually best to agree with Mycroft Holmes.  
‘You know, Mummy,’ Mycroft says casually, taking a sip of his whisky, ‘John writes as well. He keeps a blog detailing his and Sherlock’s exploits. You should read it sometime.’ John notices Sherlock’s head snap up and the pale hand holding his wine glass tightens.  
‘That does sound interesting,’ Augusta says earnestly.  
‘I wouldn’t read it, Mummy,’ Sherlock replies, his voice tight, throwing a murderous look at his brother who smiles calmly at him and swirls the whisky around in his tumbler. ‘It’s really not that interesting.’  
John, despite knowing Sherlock’s thoughts on his blog, can’t help feeling slightly hurt.  
‘Now, Sherlock,’ Mycroft says. ‘You really shouldn’t be so rude. John is a very capable writer.’  
‘I wasn’t casting aspersions on John’s writing talent,’ Sherlock hisses venemously. ‘As you well know.’  
‘Well,’ Augusta chimes after a rather uncomfortable silence. ‘I’m glad that I’ve finally got you both here.’ She glances between her sons before continuing. ‘Our Christmas do is coming up and I need to talk through some details with you before you both head back.’  
‘Mummy, I thought we agreed after last year’s frankly embarrassing debacle that I wasn’t going to be attending this year?’   
Augusta waves a hand airily. ‘Are you referring to that incident with your Uncle Dorian, Sherlock? Don’t worry about that, I had a talk with him a couple of months ago and he’s quite forgiven you for the whole thing.’  
‘I don’t want forgiveness, Mummy,’ Sherlock spits out. ‘I just don’t want to be forced to spend an entire evening listening to his drunken ramblings of his latest conquests in the film industry. It’s unforgivably dull and utterly pointless.’  
‘Sherlock’s Uncle Dorian is in show business,’ Augusta explains to John, evidently noticing his confusion and curiosity. ‘He’s a producer. He and Sherlock had a little disagreement last year after Dorian had had perhaps a few too many.’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘A few too many? Mummy, the man could barely stand up let alone form coherent sentences.’ A note of pleading enters his voice. ‘You said I didn’t have to come this year. You promised.’ John smothers a smile as he mentally pictures Sherlock saying something similar at age seven or eight.  
‘Sherlock, what is your aversion to civilised company?’ Mycroft asks, sounding genuinely interested. ‘Would you really rather spend your time running around with homeless ruffians and criminals like,’ he makes a grimace of distaste, ‘Raz, than your own family.’  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says bluntly. Mycroft frowns and looks about to say something more when Augusta interrupts.  
‘Oh Sherlock, really, you are awful, it’s only once a year. I hardly ever get to see you otherwise. And besides, this year you can bring John. I think it’s marvellous you’ve got a boyfriend. I was beginning to worry about you being alone for the rest of your life.’  
John chokes on his drink, spraying beer all over his jeans.   
‘Mummy!’ Sherlock says angrily.  
‘Well, it’s true, dear,’ Augusta carries on, completely unperturbed. ‘And besides, you really didn’t think I’d notice the way you two were holding hands when you came in? Added to the fact that you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other?’  
John notices, for the first time, that Sherlock’s good hand is resting on his thigh. Sherlock appears to notice at the same time and quickly removes it.   
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, dear,’ Augusta says to John warmly, obviously noticing the blush spreading up his cheeks. ‘I always hoped that Sherlock would find someone and I always thought he was probably gay. He showed absolutely zero interest in any of the lovely, suitable girls I invited over to the house when he was younger.’  
Sherlock glowers. ‘That’s because those “lovely, suitable girls” were absolutely tedious. Not a single brain cell to share between them. All they wanted to talk about was weddings, gossip, celebrities, gossip, more weddings, clothes, shops, gossip and clothes again. Utter drivel. I’m surprised my mind wasn’t permanently warped from having to spend time in their company, if you can call it that.’  
‘Don’t be so rude, Sherlock,’ Augusta says sharply, her eyes flashing. ‘You liked Angela Greene, didn’t you?’  
‘That’s only because she shared his inexplicable fascination with the morbid, Mummy,’ Mycroft murmurs. ‘And actually, on this point, I agree with Sherlock. Even the straightest man in the world would have been put off by the collection of vapid women you forced Sherlock to spend time with.’  
Sherlock glares suspiciously at his brother, clearly unaccustomed to hearing the words, “I agree with Sherlock” fall from his lips. John shifts uncomfortably on the cushions.  
‘The Christmas do sounds lovely, Augusta,’ he says finally. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have many... erm... formal clothes. Not much call for them in my line of work.’  
Augusta brightens, her eyes glowing. ‘We must go shopping then! I’m sure I can find you something suitable. Sherlock, you can come too. Your suit must be far too small at the rate you’ve shot up.’  
‘Mummy, I absolutely refuse to be dragged into a shopping trip with you and John,’ Sherlock retorts. ‘And besides, we’re not going. Are we John?’  
John pauses and takes another sip of his beer. ‘Well, it might be quite good fun,’ he says eventually, aware of Sherlock’s scorching gaze on his face and keeping his eyes averted. ‘We haven’t been out much recently, have we, and besides – I’d quite like to meet your family.’  
Sherlock snorts in disbelief. ‘Oh John, you are going to regret saying that,’ he says softly but with a hint of a laugh in his voice. ‘Fine, Mummy. We’ll go. But I’m not going shopping. I would rather...’ he fishes around for a bit, ‘... I would rather embalm my leg again.’  
John pauses and then looks at Sherlock. ‘Again?’ he asks incredulously.  
‘When he was twelve,’ Mycroft nods. ‘Bit of a disaster, as far as experiments go, wouldn’t you say, Sherlock?’  
‘It wasn’t the biggest success I’ve ever had,’ Sherlock says, his lips thinning. John grins, knowing this is as far as Sherlock will ever go to admitting he had failed at something.

XXXXXXXXX

‘Well, that was quite an... eventful day,’ John says when they finally manage to make it back to Baker Street at about half past one in the morning. Augusta had pleaded for them to stay the night but both John and Sherlock had refused. Both of them seemed to feel the same, that on the day they finally admitted their feelings for each other they would rather spend the night under a familiar roof.  
Sherlock doesn’t reply and merely shuts the front door with a soft click before turning to John and pushing him against the wall.  
John gasps as his back collides with the plaster. ‘Sherlock! What...?’ he manages to say before Sherlock is kissing him passionately. He lets his head fall back with a rather loud clunk and parts his lips, allowing Sherlock’s probing tongue entry.  
He feels Sherlock’s leg push its way between his thighs and his cock twitches excitedly. He groans against Sherlock’s mouth and pulls him in closer, allowing his tongue to dance with the detective’s. Sherlock’s injured hand is pressed flat against the wall near to John’s head, while his other has buried itself in John’s hair, alternately tugging and stroking at the sandy strands.  
The kiss is passionate and John thinks that he could quite happily kiss Sherlock for the rest of his life but after a few minutes Sherlock reluctantly pulls away. They stand staring at each other for a moment, both breathing heavily. Sherlock’s lips are swollen and red, his clothes are rumpled and his dark curls are standing on end from the amount of times John had run his fingers through them. John supposes he cuts a similar picture.  
‘I know you said you wanted to go slowly, John,’ Sherlock rasps finally, ‘but I’ve been waiting to do that all evening. You being sat there right next to me and not being able to do anything about it... it was torture.’  
‘It’s okay, Sherlock,’ John says breathlessly. ‘I felt the same.’ He yawns and glances at his watch. ‘Shit, look at the time. Bed?’ As the word comes out of his mouth he feels himself blushing again and notices that Sherlock’s eyes have grown wider and his pupils larger. ‘I didn’t mean that... I meant... well, you know, it’s late and we should be getting to sleep...’  
‘I know what you meant John, don’t worry,’ Sherlock says softly, still staring at him. ‘I don’t feel particularly tired, however, I will probably stay up for awhile.’  
John fidgets and shifts on the spot. ‘About our bedrooms...’ he begins.   
‘What about them?’  
‘Well,’ John can feel himself blushing harder, ‘I mean... should we perhaps move into one? Or, I dunno, that might be going a bit fast...’  
Sherlock ends his torment by stepping close to him again. ‘Think about it this way, John. We’ve already moved in together, haven’t we? And don’t most couples share a bedroom?’  
‘Y-yes, I suppose they do...’  
‘And,’ Sherlock brightens, his eyes lighting up, ‘if we share a bedroom that means I can transform my old one into a laboratory! You’ll be happy with that – it means I won’t clutter up the kitchen all the time.’  
John blinks and all he can think of to say is, ‘So we’re moving into my bedroom?’  
Sherlock slowly, as if he is talking to a very small child. ‘Of course we are, John. It’s much tidier than mine. And bigger.’  
John smiles and shrugs. ‘How can I argue with Sherlock Holmes’s impeccable logic?’  
Sherlock smiles smugly back at him. ‘You can’t.’  
They make their way into the living room and John starts making his usual bedtime mug of tea. Sherlock flops onto the sofa and stares at the ceiling.  
‘You really will regret accepting Mummy’s invitation, you know,’ Sherlock says eventually. John stirs his tea and lifts the teabag out, throwing it across the kitchen and straight into the rubbish with an accuracy born of months of practice.  
‘I just don’t get what you have against seeing your family,’ he says, wandering into the living room and sitting in his chair.  
‘If you knew them, you’d understand,’ Sherlock says dismally. ‘Mummy is fine and even Mycroft can occasionally be bearable but the rest... honestly, they make the Addams Family look like a walk in the park.’  
John blinks. ‘You know about the Addams Family?’  
Sherlock sniffs. ‘Don’t sound so surprised, John. I have occasionally watched television, you know. I found the Addams Family to be surprisingly entertaining.’  
John yawns and stands up clutching his tea. ‘Right. Well, I’m off to bed. You really should try and get some more sleep, Sherlock. It’s not healthy, starving your body of rest like you do.’  
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock says dismissively. John sighs and starts making his way over to the door. He is stopped in his tracks by Sherlock’s voice, unusually soft.  
‘John?’  
He turns. Sherlock has stood up and is fidgeting by the sofa, twisting his jacket between two pale hands. He looks uncharacteristically shy and nervous. John’s heart thuds a little in his chest. It is moments like these, when Sherlock is peering at him from under those long lashes, that he gets truly overwhelmed with his feelings for the other man.  
‘Yes?’ he replies.  
Sherlock coughs. ‘You forgot something.’  
John glances around the living room. He pats his jeans pocket and locates the familiar blocky shape of his mobile. His tea is in his hand. His book is upstairs in his... no, his and Sherlock’s... bedroom on the nightstand. He frowns, puzzled.  
‘What?’  
‘I thought...’ Sherlock blushes almost scarlet. ‘A goodnight kiss?’  
John gapes at him for a second and then bursts out laughing. Sherlock glares at him with a mixture of anger and hurt and collapses back onto the sofa, turning his face to the wall. John forces himself to stop laughing and crosses the room, depositing his tea on the table as he does so.  
‘Sherlock?’ He shakes the detective’s shoulder slightly. ‘Come on, don’t sulk, look at me.’ Grudgingly, Sherlock turns over and looks at him. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just... after that kiss in the hallway and what I said to you in your bedroom earlier... why did you feel the need to ask me? Why didn’t you just do it?’  
Sherlock flushes again, but the anger has dissipated from his features leaving only a sort of bewildered confusion.  
‘John... this, this relationship thing, it’s so new to me. I know what I want and I know the theory about getting it but... unfortunately forging a relationship is something completely beyond my experience. I acted on impulse in the hallway but a goodnight kiss I am aware is something that couples do. I didn’t quite... I didn’t know how to do it.’ He becomes a little more agitated and sits up abruptly on the sofa, forcing John to move backwards as he kneels in front of him. ‘I mean, what if I’d just kissed you? You might have taken that as a precursor to something more, despite what you’d said about moving slowly and thought I didn’t listen to you...’  
John decides enough is enough, and reaches over to place a hand against Sherlock’s cheek. The detective immediately stops talking and John files this gesture away in his brain as a method for getting Sherlock to shut up in the future.   
‘Sherlock... you’re overthinking it. I don’t know why I didn’t expect something like this. You are, well, you, after all. But honestly, Sherlock, it’s not as difficult as you’re making out. Everyone finds relationships tricky and that’s because there’s no rule book for them. You have to go on instinct and after awhile, when you’re with the same person, it becomes second nature. Believe me on this.’  
Sherlock gazes at him with a look so intense that John almost melts, and finally nods again. ‘You’re right, John. I was being...’ he frowns and looks like he almost in physical pain, ‘... stupid.’  
John laughs and then turns serious again. ‘So... you want a goodnight kiss?’ he asks, surprised to find that his voice has suddenly turned thick with desire. Sherlock responds instinctively to John’s tone, the doctor can see his eyes widen and his breathing speed up. Apparently beyond words, Sherlock nods.  
John leans forward, wondering if he is ever going to be able to get used to this, being able to lean forward and kiss the man who he now realises he has always been a little in love with ever since their first meeting.  
He hesitates, leaving perhaps a centimetre of space between their mouths. Sherlock gives a little squirm on the sofa and a low, needy moan escapes his lips. ‘John.’  
Unable to tease any longer, John closes the distance and instinctively wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist as their lips meet.   
Sherlock probes at John’s lips with his tongue, and without hesitating at all John opens his mouth to allow Sherlock to kiss him deeper. He finds himself pressed into the detective, their chests pressed firmly together.  
Idly one of John’s hands slips from Sherlock’s waist and slips under the jacket and shirt to rub against the flesh at Sherlock’s hipbone. It causes quite a startling reaction in the detective who gasps against John and jerks his hips upwards, away from John’s hand and into the doctor’s lower stomach.  
John growls deep in his throat as he feels what is unmistakeably Sherlock’s erection pressing against him.  
‘Sherlock!’ he gasps, attempting to pull back but not really wanting to break the kiss which is becoming increasingly desperate. Sherlock groans but doesn’t otherwise respond. Instead he plunges his hands into John’s hair, tugging at the roots almost hard enough it is painful as he kisses John feverishly.   
‘Sherlock!’ John says again, finally managing to pull away from the detective. When he takes a look at the other man he has to force himself to resist the urge to take the him right there and then. Sherlock looks the very definition of debauched. One of the buttons on his shirt has managed to work its way loose meaning that several inches of pale, flawless skin are exposed to John’s admiring eyes. Sherlock is breathing deeply and his eyes are almost black with desire. Slowly Sherlock licks his swollen, reddened lips and John shudders, his erection now painful against the fabric of his jeans.  
‘Bed,’ John croaks hoarsely, heaving himself to his feet although his legs are shaking. ‘I’ll see you... tomorrow.’  
He doesn’t trust himself to remain in Sherlock’s company for another second and so leaves the living room immediately and makes his way upstairs.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock remains frozen in place on the sofa, emotions coursing through his body like molten lava. Never before has he felt like this. No, not even when fantasising about what it might be like to kiss John Watson. For it has only been in the past few hours that he has realised his fantasies have fallen spectacularly, abysmally short of the mark. Nothing can compare to the feelings that course through him when he is kissing John for real, able at last to run his fingers through the sandy hair, feel the strong, muscled body against his own. Feel the responding interest. He feels himself blushing again. Ridiculous. He feels like a schoolboy again. Emotions that he has learnt to quash over the years rise up like a tide and it is John Watson who has released them.  
When he was standing in Scotland Yard listening to Anderson read from his diary he had felt nothing but a numbing horror, stealing control of his veins and thoughts like ice. He hadn’t been able to do anything to save himself from total humiliation. He had been so sure that John had rejected him without even speaking.  
To have all his preconceptions so completely overturned in the space of a few hours had been... unexpected.  
His eyes rove upwards to the ceiling. John is upstairs, asleep in bed. What is he doing down here when at last, at last, he has the right to crawl in beside the man he has been daydreaming about for months?  
Abruptly he gets to his feet and swiftly ascends the stairs, silently as usual. He pauses just outside John’s bedroom door. No, not John’s. Ours. He listens. There is hardly any sound apart from John’s muffled breathing and the occasional swish of bedclothes as he turns over in bed.  
Smiling Sherlock pushes open the door and slips into the room. It is almost pitch dark but he can see well enough due to the moonlight coming through a chink in the curtains. John lies sprawled on the left hand side of the bed. The duvet has been shucked down almost to his knees. Sherlock sucks in a breath as he notices that John’s white pyjama t-shirt has ridden up above his bellybutton, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of taut stomach lightly dusted with blonde hairs. Sherlock’s own stomach flips in response to the sight and he sighs. How on earth is he supposed to share a bed with this divine creature and not obey the desires which are screaming at him, even at this moment, to be heard?  
But couples share a bed, and Sherlock imagines that most of them have to learn how to control their instincts occasionally. Never one to ignore a challenge, Sherlock shrugs off his jacket and shirt before fumbling to remove his shoes, socks and jeans.   
He wonders whether he should put on a t-shirt like John, but realises this would mean traipsing up to his bedroom, something he is not planning on doing when he is itching to cuddle up to his blogger.  
Swiftly he slips into the right hand side of the bed and then freezes. What exactly is he supposed to do now? All he wants to do is wrap his arms around John and never let go. And didn’t John say that anything he wants to do he should follow through with? Still, he is paralysed in an agony of indecision.  
What Sherlock hadn’t planned on, or expected, is John shifting over to his side of the bed, still fast asleep and rendering all his worries void as John clings onto him, one hand landing on his hip and the other resting across his breastbone. Sherlock chuckles to himself as John burrows his head into the crook between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.  
Perhaps, he wonders idly, the human body recognises the presence of another in the bed, even when deeply asleep. Interesting. Could form a fascinating experiment.  
Sherlock finds himself more relaxed than he has been for a very long time. Having John’s soft, warm body curled up against him makes him feel safe and wanted. Both are strange emotions for him, and they allow him to slip easily off to sleep for the first time in years.


	19. An Apology Is Issued

Chapter Nineteen

An Apology Is Issued

Sherlock wakes up leisurely, a first for him, and realises almost immediately that he doesn’t want to leap straight out of bed... again, another first. The reason for the latter is probably the fact that John has managed to attach himself like a limpet to Sherlock’s side, with one arm flung across Sherlock’s chest and the other nestling on the pillow near his head, his hand buried in his curls. Sherlock is quite content to simply lie peacefully for a few moments, enjoying the feel of skin on skin and the sight of John’s arm rising up and down slowly with Sherlock’s breathing. Besides which he probably couldn’t get up without disturbing John even if he wanted to.  
Carefully he twists his head sideways to look at John. The doctor looks incredibly relaxed when he’s asleep and some of the lines on his face seem to have smoothed away. He looks younger. Following an impulse, Sherlock leans forward and gently kisses him, almost feeling that he has to take every opportunity he can in case it is suddenly snatched away.   
The duvet shifts and Sherlock pulls away to see John’s bleary, sleepy blue eyes peering up at him.  
‘Hello,’ Sherlock says, and immediately regrets it. Hello? What sort of an inane thing is that to say to your... lover? Boyfriend? Partner?... as soon as they wake up? But John is smiling, his eyes crinkling.  
‘Hello to you too,’ he murmurs and yawns widely. ‘What time is it?’  
Sherlock reluctantly turns away from John to look at the clock on the bedside table. ‘Ten o’clock.’  
‘Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever slept in until ten,’ John mutters, but makes no move to leave the bed.   
‘I have, once,’ Sherlock says absently. ‘But that was probably because I’d been awake for five days straight.’  
John blinks and sits upright in bed. ‘Five... five days? Sherlock!’  
‘What?’ Sherlock asks, his brow creasing in confusion.  
‘I know you don’t need much rest but you’re not a vampire! You do need some sleep, everyone does. Five days is far too much time to spend without rest.’  
Sherlock tugs at John’s arm to try and get him lying down again. When that doesn’t work he frowns. ‘Okay, fine. I will promise to try and sleep every other night for at least four hours. Does that satisfy you?’  
‘Alright,’ John says reluctantly. ‘I suppose we can work on that.’  
‘Can you lie back down again now? I’m getting cold.’ Grumbling slightly John shuffles back down and as soon as his head touches the pillow, Sherlock wraps his arms around him, as if afraid he might escape.  
‘We can’t stay here forever, you know,’ John murmurs.  
‘Why not? You don’t have work and thanks to the Yard I don’t have any cases to solve. We can stay here all day if we want to.’ Sherlock surprises himself at the words coming out of his mouth. Never before had he even imagined he might find himself advocating the idea of staying in bed all day. How unutterably tedious! But now, with John in his arms, he has to admit he is hard pressed to think of a better idea.   
‘I know but...’ John trails off, unable to think of a reason why they need to get out of bed. If he is honest he is as loath to leave the warmth of the covers as Sherlock evidently is. And now Sherlock is tracing small circles on his hipbone and it feels so indescribably good. John arches into the touch and his t-shirt rides up a few centimetres more.  
Sherlock’s breathing quickens as he sees the material of John’s shirt rise to expose more of his stomach. John appears to be enjoying his ministrations if the small groans of contentment coming out of his mouth are any indication. The detective files this information away for later and shuffles in closer to John to capture his lips in a kiss once again.  
Now fully awake, John responds instantly, swiping his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, seeking entrance which is quickly given. What with the combined heated passion of their kiss and those fingers still stroking his hipbone, John feels his morning erection grow stronger and he pulls away from the kiss reluctantly.  
‘We should get up,’ he groans, already shifting away from Sherlock.   
‘Right,’ the detective responds in such an odd tone of voice that John, already halfway off the bed, shifts his torso around to look at him. Sherlock is still lying buried in the covers with a slightly hurt look on his face. He smiles tentatively at John but it doesn’t reach his fog-coloured eyes. ‘Did I... did I do something wrong?’  
John gapes at him. ‘Did you... what?’  
‘Wrong, John,’ Sherlock clarifies with a hint of his usual impatience. ‘Did I do something wrong? Just now. You seem to be in an awful hurry to vacate the bed all of a sudden.’ John groans as Sherlock’s voice washes over him. A voice as rich and smooth as melted dark chocolate but with a raspy quality – a testament to his old twenty-pack-a-day smoking habit. It isn’t helping the situation in John’s pyjama trousers one bit. John laughs, almost to himself, and gets a frown from Sherlock in return. John’s mouth twists as he smothers his amusement before he replies.  
‘There’s nothing wrong, Sherlock. Rather the opposite in fact. I need to... remove myself from temptation.’ To clarify his point he gestures loosely at the rather obvious tent in the loose material of his trousers. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he swallows.  
‘Why, John? Why do you have to remove yourself from temptation? What are you so afraid of?’ His voice paralyses John, pinning him to the mattress, he is unable to move as Sherlock crawls across to him in a manner almost predatory.   
It is John’s turn to swallow as Sherlock reaches him and wraps his arms around his chest, pressing his own torso flush to John’s back. Sherlock’s long fingers travel slowly downward until they are hovering at John’s waistband. John can feel Sherlock’s breath tickling across the back of his neck, raising goosebumps on the flesh.  
‘Sherlock, I...’   
‘Do you want this, John?’ The voice purring in his ear. So much better than his fantasies. Real. Sherlock here, behind him, arms encircling and caressing. The ache is almost unbearable and he wants more than anything for Sherlock to touch and claim. Feeling almost out of his mind with want and need, John presses himself back into Sherlock, arching his pelvis forwards.   
Sherlock takes this as assent and slowly John feels the warm fingers slide beneath the waistband. He groans loudly as Sherlock takes him in hand, feels those clever slender digits fasten around his throbbing length.  
‘Sh-Sherlock...’  
‘You’re beautiful, John Watson,’ Sherlock murmurs, nibbling slightly at John’s earlobe as his hand begins to stroke. John gasps and bucks forward again, his eyes rolling slightly as the sensations pulse through his body. He is close, very close. It won’t take much to push him over the edge. He can already feel it building as Sherlock continues to work him. There is something incredibly erotic in the fact he cannot see Sherlock. All he sees is his own leaking erection, a pale arm, muscles cording under the skin and the detective’s hand with the broken fingers resting on the sheets near his hip.  
‘Sherlock... I’m so close...’ he manages to gasp although his vocal chords seem restricted and his brain fogged with pleasure.  
‘Let it go, John,’ Sherlock whispers, his voice laced with his own arousal. ‘Let go.’  
John’s fingers dig into his thigh as his body strains towards that elusive release. He wants to fight it. He isn’t sure he’s totally ready to lose control in front of the sardonic detective yet. It is the reason he doesn’t want to go all the way with Sherlock. The detective is in control such a lot of the time, always two steps ahead of John with his deductions and his intellect. Petty though it is, intense as his own desires for Sherlock are, John relishes in having this one element of control.  
But Sherlock is now kissing and biting lightly at the pulse point in his neck and there is no stopping it. The feel of Sherlock’s lips and teeth on his skin, the fingers so dexterous at flying over a mobile or laptop keypads now put to a much better use.   
‘J-es-us...’ he exhales shakily, the crescendo rising – he is powerless to stop it.   
‘Not quite.’ John can feel Sherlock’s smirk against his neck. Sherlock jerks his hand and then flicks a fingernail over the head of John’s cock. It is the last straw. John’s body arches forward as his orgasm overtakes him, rendering his muscles weak and useless, his brain a blaze of pure white light.   
He is shuddering, still riding out the aftershocks, when there is a loud knocking at the door below. Sherlock huffs irritably.  
‘Of all the times for someone to come calling.’ He presses another kiss to John’s neck. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers.   
‘For what?’ John asks hoarsely, still not quite in control of his mental faculties.  
‘For letting me in. For trusting me.’  
‘You’re welcome. And how did you get so good at that? I mean, I thought this sort of thing wasn’t “your area”.’ Sherlock smiles slightly.  
‘Just because I have always kept myself away from physical relationships in all their forms, doesn’t mean that I don’t understand the basic principles. The internet can be very forthcoming on the subject.’  
John opens his mouth to reply, though with what he has no idea, when the knock comes again, louder this time. Sherlock sighs and flops back onto the pillows.  
‘You should probably get that John. I’m going to take a shower.’  
John twists around to gape at Sherlock in astonishment. ‘Sorry, what?’  
‘The door, John. Someone’s at the door.’  
‘Sherlock... in case you haven’t noticed, I’m in a bit of a state here.’ John indicates the come splattering his pyjama trousers and upper thighs.   
Sherlock sits upright and gestures to his lap. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed, which is after all incredibly likely, I’m hardly in a fit state to answer the door to anybody. Better you mop yourself up quickly and see who it is. Or would you rather I answer the door with this available to anyone who wants to see?’  
John sighs and reaches for the tissues sitting on the bedside table. ‘Sometimes your logic is incredibly annoying – you know that right?’  
‘It’s been said,’ Sherlock quips, swinging his legs out of bed. John is unable to stop his gaze fixating on the obscenely large bulge in his boxers. Sherlock notices where his gaze is fixed and smirks, raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, John. If it’ll make you feel any better I’ll tell you now that you will be the reason this goes away. Thoughts of you and a long hot shower.’ He winks as a blush rises to John’s cheeks and leaves the bedroom.  
John groans and starts wiping at himself with the tissues. Within a few seconds he has got it all off and he throws the soiled tissues into the wastepaper basket. Pulling on a jumper, a new pair of boxers and his old jeans he shuffles into the corridor and down the stairs. The knocking is by now almost insistent.  
Cursing softly under his breath he reaches the door and pulls it open. Lestrade is standing on the threshold clutching a bottle of red wine and wearing a slightly sheepish expression. John frowns. Even though he knows Lestrade had nothing to do with the incident at the Yard he still feels a residual anger as he looks at the Detective Inspector. His words therefore come out slightly harsher than they would usually.  
‘Are you trying to break down our door?’  
‘Sorry, I just...’ Lestrade shrugs, his dark eyes apologetic. ‘Sorry. Can I come in? I bought you and Sherlock a little... something to say sorry.’ John sighs and stands aside, waving Lestrade into the apartment.  
The Inspector wanders over to the sofa and perches on the cushions, looking distinctly out of place. John reflects that the only time Lestrade has ever been in this apartment he’s been on some sort of official business, whether that be pleading for Sherlock’s help in a case or staging a fake drugs bust.  
John takes the bottle of wine and puts it in the kitchen. ‘I’m making tea, d’you want any?’ he calls.  
‘Yeah, thanks.’  
John leans against the wooden frame of the kitchen partition as he waits for the kettle to boil. An awkward silence falls, with Lestrade fidgeting on the sofa.  
‘I really am sorry, John. I mean, about the incident yesterday.’  
John scowls. ‘Thanks, Lestrade, but I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologising to.’ Lestrade nods.  
‘Right. Erm... where is Sherlock?’  
‘Upstairs. He’s having a shower.’ The anger is still simmering slightly and perhaps it is this which prompts John to speak again. ‘Your officers are a disgrace, Lestrade. There was no excuse for what they did to Sherlock.’  
Lestrade nods again. ‘I know. I’ve suspended Anderson from duty for an indefinite period and rest assured when he finally comes back it will be strictly the most boring, dull cases I can find. I’ve had words with Donovan, she’s been issued with a gross misconduct warning.’ John nods, a little placated at the measures put in place. Lestrade grins suddenly, transforming his features. ‘You know I could arrest you for assault on a police officer, Doctor Watson.’  
John smiles and cocks his head to one side. ‘You could... but you won’t.’  
Lestrade holds his silence for a second and then smiles back. ‘You’re right. I won’t. After I heard the full story I felt like doing the same thing myself.’ His grin fades and he stares at John intently, passion blazing from his brown eyes. ‘Just know this, John. It may not seem like it sometimes but I really appreciate all that Sherlock does for the Yard. Whatever reasons he has for doing it, his boredom, his need to be proved more intelligent than anyone else... it doesn’t matter. Not to me. I’ve known him for five years and I think I can safely call him a friend of mine. I didn’t hear all of what Anderson said, but I heard enough.’ He falls silent and the kettle boils.   
John gets up from the sofa and makes the tea, bringing it back into the living room and handing a mug to Lestrade, who takes it gratefully. John watches Lestrade fidget for awhile, watches the older man tap his foot on the floor and drum his fingers against the armrest of the sofa. Eventually he’s had enough.  
‘Alright, what is it?’  
Lestrade freezes, looking almost guilty. ‘What?’  
‘Lestrade, please. I’ve been living with Sherlock Holmes for months. I’ve picked up a few things. There’s obviously something bothering you, something you want to ask me but you haven’t yet plucked up the nerve. What is it?’  
Lestrade swallows. ‘So... what you said, to Anderson when Sherlock ran out of the Yard. Was it true?’  
John frowns at him. ‘You mean about my feelings for Sherlock?’  
Lestrade nods.  
‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Lestrade. His feelings evidently aren’t important to some people but to me they are the most precious thing in the world. I wouldn’t hurt him like that.’ He quirks an eyebrow at the Inspector and takes a casual sip of tea. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Almost everybody did apparently. And way before I knew.’  
‘What d’you mean?’  
‘Well...’ John starts ticking them off on his fingers. ‘Mycroft, Sarah, all the guys at the surgery apparently, Justin... all of them assumed we were in a relationship. I didn’t want to believe them. I was so desperate to hold onto what I thought was my identity.’ John shrugs. ‘Turns out my identity was completely wrong. Sherlock is...’ he pauses, struggling to find the words. ‘Sherlock is everything,’ he finally says. ‘He always has been. It just, it took me awhile to see it. That’s why I’m kinda grateful to Donovan and Anderson. I’d been having these feelings but I was totally unable to act on them. I mean, can you imagine how awkward it would have been if Sherlock hadn’t felt the same way?’ Lestrade shudders in response. ‘Exactly. So... awful and cruel as it was, Anderson actually solved that particular issue. Sherlock feels the same way I do. And that’s that.’  
‘I suppose I did notice a few things. Sometimes it was like you could barely keep your eyes off Sherlock when I saw you together. You never seemed to want to get too far away, and if there had to be distance you would always check over every now and then to see that he was still okay.’ Lestrade pauses briefly. ‘But I suppose it was when he was taken I saw it for the first time. You... you went to pieces John. I mean you literally dissolved. It was like you’d lost your centre and just didn’t know what to do.’  
John can’t help re-experiencing the agony of when he first learnt that Sherlock had been taken by Moriarty. His pain must have been evident on his face because Lestrade winces in sympathy.  
John has just opened his mouth to say something when there is a clattering on the stairs and Sherlock’s voice penetrates through to the living room.  
‘John? Nearly all my clothes are in the laundry basket and I can’t wear the ones that I left in the bedroom because they smell weird...’ Sherlock arrives at the threshold and stops dead.   
John can’t help smiling. Sherlock has arrived wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his hips, dark hair still wet and dripping from the shower. John coughs.  
‘Erm, Sherlock... Lestrade has something he wants to say.’ Lestrade turns around and catches sight of the world’s only consulting detective, currently looking incredibly uncomfortable and flushed red. Lestrade’s cheeks turn crimson and he quickly averts his eyes. John takes pity on them both and speaks again.  
‘Sherlock, why don’t you wear some of my clothes? I’ll put the laundry on later.’  
Sherlock nods and disappears as fast as is humanely possible.

XXXXXXXXXX

‘Ah, Sherlock. I just came to apologise.’ John thinks Lestrade is doing a remarkable job of keeping a straight face. Bearing in mind that Sherlock is wearing a jumper of John’s which is far too short in the arm but bags hugely around the chest. The jeans are held up with a belt and bunched around his hips while the rest of the material balloons in voluminous folds around his legs. Sherlock frowns.  
‘You came to do what, Lestrade?’  
‘Apologise. To you. About what Sergeant Donovan and Anderson did yesterday. It was completely unnecessary.’ Sherlock is silent for a few moments and John is alarmed to see a cold, calculating look radiate from his eyes.  
‘Quite, alright, Inspector,’ Sherlock bites out and John winces. He can feel the venom from across the room. ‘Tell me, is it your wife’s fifth affair this time, or the sixth?’  
Lestrade blinks at the Consulting Detective, mouth agape. ‘You... what?’  
‘Fifth or sixth? Hmm... sixth, I would say. You know any sane man would have left a woman like that by now. But you’re still hanging on, I see. Admirable. Or stupid.’  
Lestrade takes a step back, his features radiating a mixture of agonising pain and anger. Sharply he gestures at the bottle of wine in the kitchen. ‘I bought you something to say sorry. I’ll see myself out. John.’ He nods in the doctor’s direction and leaves the room swiftly, banging the door shut behind him.  
John clenches his jaw tightly. Sherlock begins clattering about in the kitchen, no doubt assembling another experiment.  
‘Well, that got rid of him. No need to thank me, John. I didn’t want anybody intruding on our day together...’  
‘Sherlock.’  
‘... now about turning my room into a lab... I may need some help transferring equipment up there...’  
‘Sherlock.’  
‘... and I’m sure you’ll be invaluable in helping. By the way, when do you think you’ll get around to doing the laundry?’  
‘Sherlock!’  
Sherlock turns around to find that John has got to his feet and is breathing fast and heavily, his face flushed.  
‘John? Are you alright?’  
‘No. I am not alright,’ John spits out between clenched teeth. ‘Why did you do that?’  
‘Do what?’   
‘That! To Lestrade, just now!’   
‘John, you really must make yourself clear. What did I do?’  
John approaches and grabs hold of Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Your... deductions. About Lestrade’s wife and his marriage. What on earth...? Why did you do it?’  
Sherlock huffs and tries to wriggle away from John’s grasp. ‘Everyone knows about Lestrade’s wife and her affairs. Don’t be so dramatic, John.’  
John strangles a yell and somehow manages to push Sherlock into the wall. ‘No, Sherlock!’ His rage constricts his voice. ‘No! I didn’t know! Probably nobody apart from you and Lestrade knew!’  
Sherlock swallows. John’s fingers are digging into his shoulders in a grip that is bordering on painful.  
‘John – John, you’re hurting me.’  
John growls and spins away, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘How could you? I thought...’ he trails off and then turns back to face Sherlock. ‘That was cruel, Sherlock. Cruel.’  
‘I don’t understand.’ Sherlock’s tone is genuinely confused and a panicky, fearful look has entered his eyes. ‘You said you liked everything about me... I was, I was deducing...’  
‘No, you were humiliating him. What happened at the Yard yesterday?’ John fixes Sherlock with a gimlet stare. ‘That’s what you just did to Lestrade. You humiliated him. Unnecessarily. He was coming to apologise to you! For Christ’s sake Sherlock!’  
‘I...’  
‘Just, don’t talk. I’m going to say something to you now. Lestrade considers you a friend. Friends don’t treat each other like you just treated him. If you carry on like this you’re going to end up losing everyone who cares about you.’  
Sherlock is a statue in marble, his eyes bright. ‘Everyone, John?’  
John, his mind blurred with rage, replies without thinking. ‘Yes, everyone, Sherlock!’  
‘Right.’ Without another word Sherlock sweeps past him and disappears up the stairs. John sinks down into the sofa and holds his head in his hands. How has everything gone so wrong so quickly? Just a few minutes ago Sherlock was in his arms and giving him one of the greatest handjobs he’s ever had and now...  
John stares around. Now Sherlock is gone. He groans. Why is he feeling guilty? He has nothing to feel guilty about. Sherlock went too far with Lestrade and he merely pointed out what he’d done wrong.  
Except he’d done more than that. He’d trapped Sherlock against the wall, almost hurt him. And... Jesus.  
John’s mind suddenly runs over the last part of their conversation.  
‘If you carry on like this you’re going to end up losing everyone who cares about you.’  
‘Everyone, John?’  
‘Yes, everyone, Sherlock!’  
Shit. And double shit. How on earth could he have said that? Sherlock... inexperienced as he is with relationships and the fights that inevitably occur...  
Now he comes to think about it, he can see where Sherlock was coming from. The man is unused to dealing with emotions and he was clearly experiencing some strong anger when he saw Lestrade in the living room. Like John did when he opened the door to Lestrade. Only Sherlock doesn’t know how to deal with it and so reacts in the only way he knows how. By hurting other people enough so they don’t bother to get too close.   
‘John – John, you’re hurting me.’  
John gets up from the sofa, resolve burning in his eyes. This is his and Sherlock’s first fight. He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, but now that it has he has to deal with it. As he gains the stairs to the upper floors he reflects that at least Sherlock hasn’t stormed out of the flat. He can’t count the amount of times that has happened recently.  
He approaches the bedroom door and stops outside, listening. There is silence from the room beyond the wood. He raises his hand and knocks.  
‘Sherlock?’  
No answer. He sighs heavily and leans his head against the doorframe. ‘Sherlock, if you don’t answer me I’m coming in anyway.’ Still nothing. Opening the door he sees the Consulting Detective sitting rigidly on the end of the bed, his good hand fisted in the sheets, the other lying limply on his lap. John takes a deep breath and resolves to cut straight to the heart of the matter.  
‘Sherlock... I didn’t mean what I said to you. About you losing everyone. I was angry, I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.’  
‘But you still said it.’ Sherlock’s voice is hollow. ‘Why say it if you didn’t mean it?’ John rubs his eyes.  
‘Because we were fighting and I was angry. I lost my temper, Sherlock. I’m really sorry.’  
‘It doesn’t make it any the less true though, John. You’re right. I do push away everyone who gets close to me. It’s a mystery why you haven’t left yet... you’re a puzzling man in many ways. But you will leave. Eventually. Everyone gets sick of me sooner or later. Even you, as you informed me just now.’  
‘Jesus – Sherlock! I’m not going to leave you! Couples fight, it’s normal, it can even be healthy as long as they don’t do it all the time. And when couples fight things get said sometimes... things that aren’t meant...’  
‘Why do you keep saying that?’ Sherlock’s voice is cool and collected, but John thinks he can hear a slight tremble.  
‘Saying what?’  
‘Couples.’  
‘Well, because that’s what we are now, Sherlock. We’re a couple.’  
‘Are we?’  
‘You said it yourself yesterday! We live together, we now share a bedroom and you’re currently wearing my clothes!’  
‘Couples split up.’  
John takes a couple of steps closer and sits on the edge of the bed as well, not touching Sherlock. ‘What’s all this really about, Sherlock? I know you’re not experienced in this area but surely even you know that couples do stay together sometimes. I mean, look at Sandra Bullock and her husband... what’s his name? Jesse James? They’ve been together for years.’  
‘They just broke up,’ Sherlock says morosely, still not meeting John’s eyes.  
‘What? How do you... how do you even know that?’  
‘I’m not completely oblivious to celebrity culture, John and even if I were, it’s a sad fact that various so-called newspapers insist on parading such petty information in lieu of actual news nowadays.’  
John blinks a few times, attempting to get his brain back on track. ‘Never mind, it was a stupid example anyway. What I’m trying to say is that yes, sometimes people do split up but people stay together as well. You have to take a risk with relationships but believe me, I’m not going anywhere.’  
For the first time Sherlock shuffles to look at him. ‘You’d have every right to leave. I’m well aware that what I said to Inspector Lestrade just now was uncalled for.’  
‘I think I know why you did it. It’s natural that you still have some residual anger and embarrassment over what happened at the Yard, and seeing Lestrade reminded you of it. You lashed out at him because you couldn’t attack the actual perpetrators.’  
‘How do you know that?’  
John half-smiles. ‘I know I’m not as remarkable as you, Sherlock, but I do have some understanding of the way a human’s mind works. Perhaps more so than you in this particular area, concerning as it does emotions.’  
Sherlock smiles briefly and then lowers his gaze to his lap, his features miserable once again. ‘I can’t shake the feeling you’re going to leave me, John,’ he murmurs eventually. ‘Every moment now I feel like I’m treading on eggshells, trying desperately not to do something wrong. And I know I always will, at some point, because sometimes I don’t know what the wrong thing is. And once I do you will walk out that door and never come back. And I’ll be ruined because somehow you’ve managed to stir feelings in me that I thought I’d never be capable of having.’  
John pinches the bridge of his nose and then exhales noisily. ‘I should have expected this. Nothing I say is going to convince you, is it?’  
Sherlock shrugs. ‘I doubt it.’  
John turns as if to leave and then spins back around. ‘Here’s the thing. Relationships aren’t like one of your experiments. Feelings and emotions... often they can’t be explained. They’re not something tangible you can examine and lay bare on a table, separated into all their different components.’  
‘Obviously, John, which is why I’m having such trouble with the whole concept. You are contrary to the point of intense annoyance. Just when I think I can predict your behaviour and your reactions to circumstances you go ahead and do exactly the opposite rendering my whole hypothesis of your character completely invalid.’  
John rolls his eyes. ‘So, in plain speak, what you’re saying is that you can’t predict what I’ll do?’  
‘Precisely, and it is that which has me nervous. I can’t even begin to fathom how you will respond to situations now, which is what makes me worry that one day I’ll do something and you will leave. I’ll never even have seen it coming. It makes more logical sense for you to leave now and spare us both the pain of a later separation.’  
‘You really are unbelievable. Sherlock, we’ve just had our first fight, and I’m still here. I’ve stayed with you throughout all that you’ve done which is more than a little bit ‘not good’, remember? There’s obviously nothing more I can say, so I’m not going to waste my breath. You’ll just have to abandon your ‘reason’ for once and take the leap like everybody else. I’ll be downstairs if you want me, I’m going to start making a late breakfast. You should really eat, you need to keep up your strength.’  
Quietly John leaves the room, scooping up Sherlock’s jeans and shirt from the floor and depositing them in the laundry hamper as he goes. He has done all that he can. The rest is up to Sherlock. The detective needs to abandon his brain for once and let his instincts make the decision.   
As John descends to the kitchen he looks outwardly calm but inside his mind is in turmoil. For what if Sherlock is unable to overcome his mind’s rational objections to a relationship? What on earth is he supposed to do then? Even during the early days of their friendship John somehow recognised that if he was separated from Sherlock he would find it difficult to recover. Now that their friendship has gone further, now that he actually has Sherlock, the idea of it being taken away from him is unbearable.


	20. Reconciliation

Chapter Twenty

Reconciliation

Three Hours Later

John sits in his chair, an empty plate and mug beside him, trying desperately to involve himself in the plot of the novel in his hand. On the table nearby is a matching plate and mug, however while John’s plate is merely covered in crumbs, the other has two slices of toast and a heap of scrambled eggs on it. John’s mug is empty yet the one on the table is full of now cold tea.  
Occasionally John looks up from his book, sighs at the sight of the untouched lunch and raises his eyes upwards. There hasn’t been a sound from the bedroom since he left it about three hours ago. Lunchtime has come and gone and there is not any indication that Sherlock is coming down anytime soon. Every impulse John possesses is shouting at him to just get up from the chair, pound upon the bedroom door and demand that Sherlock come down and talk to him.   
He is intelligent and perceptive enough, however, to realise that behaviour of that sort would be incredibly counter-productive. If his and Sherlock’s relationship has any chance of proceeding and lasting it has to come from a genuine desire on Sherlock’s behalf and John has said everything he can think of to persuade him. He cannot stop himself, however, from obsessing in his mind over the worst case scenario, in which Sherlock descends the stairs and says resolutely that he has given the matter a great deal of logical thought and has subsequently come to the conclusion that a relationship between them would be unfeasible. He would then request that relations between them revert to what they have previously been, friends and flatmates. John honestly doesn’t know how he’d react if that happened.  
There is a clatter downstairs as the post arrives through the letterbox and John absently listens to Mrs Hudson opening her door and collecting it, as is her habit. After about a minute there are her footsteps on the stairs and a gentle tap on the door.  
‘It’s open,’ John calls, getting up from his chair with a sigh.  
Mrs Hudson enters, a couple of letters in her hand. She holds them out to John. ‘I’ve got your post here, dear. Where’s Sherlock? Off gallivanting around London I expect.’  
‘No, he’s... resting upstairs. He’s not feeling too well just at the moment.’  
Mrs Hudson smiles benigningly. ‘Well, it’s a good thing he has a doctor as a flatmate, isn’t it. Give him my best, won’t you dear?’  
‘I will. Thank you for the letters.’  
‘You’re welcome, dear.’ She leaves and John flicks through the post. It is the usual collection of bills, he really must have a word with Sherlock about them (providing of course he ever comes out of the bedroom), and then his eye is caught by a thick envelope which is hand-addressed.

Mr. S. Holmes Esq and Dr. J. Watson Esq

John blinks at it for a second. He doesn’t recall ever being addressed as ‘Esquire’ in his life. The envelope is clearly expensive and a sudden suspicion enters his mind. This is most likely from Augusta Holmes, the invitation to the Christmas party. Briefly he toys with the idea of breaking his self-enforced silence and calling up the stairs to inform Sherlock, but rejects it almost immediately. Instead he places it on the mantelpiece where Sherlock’s keen eyes cannot fail to notice it if he ever comes down.  
John collects up his empty plate and mug as well as Sherlock’s untouched lunch, takes them into the kitchen, pours the cold tea down the sink and begins boiling the kettle for a new brew.  
He has just made his new mug of tea and is in the process of turning around to carry it into the living room when a voice startles him.  
‘John.’  
He starts and the tea sloshes over the rim of the mug and down his jumper, soaking through to his skin and making him cry out.  
‘Jesus! Sherlock!’  
The world’s only consulting detective stands in the entrance to the kitchen managing to look at the same time both nervous, embarrassed and resolute.   
‘I think we need to have a talk.’ John clutches the handle of the mug slightly tighter. I think we need to have a talk. Surely the most hated phrase in the world for people who are in a relationship. Nausea rises in his throat and he forces it down, while walking through to the living room and sitting down in his chair. Somehow he manages to make his tone casual.  
‘Sure. I made you lunch, but I presumed you didn’t want it so I threw it in the bin.’  
‘I didn’t want it. I was thinking.’  
John fights the urge to groan. This is exactly what he was afraid of. Sherlock’s brain is undoubtedly going to triumph over any feelings he might have for John.  
‘What were you thinking?’  
Sherlock steeples his fingers together, as well as he can with the ones that are broken, and peers at John over the top of them, his piercing grey eyes narrowed as he takes a seat on the sofa.   
‘As far as I understand it, you wish me to “take the leap”. By that I infer that you want me to abandon all my sense of reason and logic and pursue something which may or may not yield results. Is that correct?’  
Put in those terms, John’s heart sinks even further. He knows Sherlock, after all.  
‘That’s right.’  
‘You want me to abandon my skills of logical thinking and reasoning in order to pursue a relationship with someone who I met less than a year ago when this brain-power of mine has served me well throughout my entire life.’  
John’s heart seems to seize and stutter. Ice steals through his veins, numbing his thoughts. This is it, then. Just as he realises what he has always wanted it is taken away. He is finding it hard to breathe as the very walls of the apartment seem to close in around him. How can Sherlock sound so matter-of-fact? Isn’t this the man who wrote in his diary for months about his feelings for John? Have they all vanished so swiftly?  
‘Yes,’ he murmurs in a cracked voice, staring into his mug of tea. How absurd it sounds, now that Sherlock comes to mention it. Why should he, ordinary John Watson, make an impression on the amazing Sherlock Holmes?  
‘You realise what that is asking of me?’ Sherlock continues coolly and John is aware of his burning gaze although he doesn’t raise his own eyes to meet it.  
‘Yes.’  
‘If it were any other person, there would be no question of my refusal. But you, John Watson. You are something special.’  
John takes a deep breath, hardly willing to believe what he is hearing, and raises his eyes to meet those of Sherlock.  
‘You, who I would trust, and have trusted, with my life. You, who follows me into danger without a second thought, who defends my honour without being asked. You, who rescued me from the hands of Moriarty when I myself thought all was lost.’ Sherlock abruptly rises from the sofa and crosses to John, kneeling in front of him. ‘How could I ever want to be without you? Logic and reason would insist that you stay by my side. And even more than that, I want you by my side. Always. I have thought about it and I will take any risk, any leap, to keep you there.’  
John can only stare blankly at Sherlock until his brain kicks into action and the words sink in.  
‘You’re serious?’  
Sherlock smiles slightly. ‘John, you know I rarely joke.’  
‘You’d really risk abandoing your reasoning for this?’  
‘For you, I’d do anything,’ Sherlock states coolly and looking into his eyes John has no reason to doubt his assertion.  
‘Well... that’s, that’s good then, isn’t it?’ John replies, his words tripping over themselves. Sherlock grins again and then suddenly looks a little anxious.  
‘John – this “leap” you keep talking about, I presume you do mean a figurative one. You’re not expecting me to jump off something, are you?’  
John laughs until his sides hurt and after a few moments Sherlock chuckles a little in response. Clearing his throat John clasps Sherlock’s hand.  
‘Very much figurative.’  
‘I thought so. It’s just people in relationships often do such odd things I wondered if they made an actual leap, out of some misguided sense of symbolism.’  
‘Well, some people might, but I can assure you it’s definitely not a common occurrence.’  
‘I have one more question.’  
‘Go ahead.’   
‘I will still be able to solve cases won’t I? And aid the Yard eventually? And what about my experiments...?’ John smiles slightly sadly at the look of worry and anxiety on the detective’s face. He reaches out a hand and cups Sherlock’s cheek tenderly.  
‘Sherlock, I don’t want you to change who you are. I’d never ask that of you. Your amazing brain, your deductions and your methods are what I fell in love with in the first place. All I’m asking is that when it’s just us you allow your heart rather than your mind to guide you. I don’t want you overthinking anything between us.’  
Sherlock is silent, his face thoughtful and yet his grey eyes are lit from within by some sort of glow.  
‘Do you mean that?’ he asks quietly.  
‘Of course I do,’ John responds.  
‘All of it? Even the part about you being in love with me?’  
John starts and his mind races back over his previous statement. Ah. Of course he is in love with the younger man, there’s no use denying that, and he’s fully accepted it. He didn’t, however, intend for Sherlock to know until a little later in their relationship.   
His hand drops from Sherlock’s cheek to fall into his lap where he twists it into the fabric of his jeans.  
‘I... well, yes.’ He is aware he is flushing red. ‘Yes. But I understand if you can’t say the same yet. I realise this is completely new for you and...’  
Sherlock lays his good hand over John’s and stills its agitated movements. He takes a deep breath before speaking. ‘John, I’m not entirely sure of what love is. I am loath to make a statement such as “I love you” until I’m completely certain. But rest assured that I deeply care for you and you’re the most important person in my life.’  
John grins. He hadn’t expected an immediate declaration of love, especially considering the fact that this is Sherlock Holmes. What the detective has just said is more than enough for him for the time being and he says so, earning himself a blazing smile in return.  
Leaning forwards he captures Sherlock’s cupid-bow lips in a deep kiss which the other man returns enthusiastically, raising his hand to tangle in the short blonde hairs at the nape of John’s neck.  
When they pull away John smiles ruefully and swipes a hand through his hair. ‘I need a haircut. It’s getting far too long.’  
Sherlock cocks his head to one side and eyes John critically. ‘I like it like that,’ he declares. ‘It suits you longer.’  
John laughs and stands up. ‘I think you’ve already got the whole rock ‘n’ roll, messy hair thing down. I’d look ridiculous with hair like yours. Besides, I’m a soldier remember? I like having short hair.’  
‘Hmm,’ Sherlock murmurs noncomittally, getting up from the floor and resuming his previous position on the sofa.  
‘Oh, I forgot, we’ve got a letter. I think it might be the Christmas Party invitation from your mother.’  
He plucks the envelope off the mantelpiece, crosses the room, and holds it out to Sherlock who takes it from him and glares as though the letter’s very existence has offended him in some way.  
‘Could you pass me my knife?’ he asks eventually. John unsticks the jack-knife pinning Sherlock’s unanswered mail from the mantelpiece with a little difficulty and hands it to the detective who slices open the envelope and withdraws a thick card.  
‘Well? Is it from your mother?’  
‘Yes, I recognised the writing instantly. As you thought it’s the invitation for the Christmas Party.’ Sherlock looks gloomy. ‘Is there any way I can change your mind about our attending it?’  
John grins broadly. ‘Nope. Can I have a look?’  
‘Of course. My mother has even included a little postscript especially for your attention.’ A little intrigued, John reaches for the profferred invitation and scans the few lines quickly. Right at the bottom is a little note.

For John’s attention. I hope you are still available for a little shopping so we may buy you a dress suit. Sherlock has my number so if you give me a ring we can arrange a date. 

John blinks. ‘So she was serious about me getting a suit then?’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘One thing you will learn, John, is that my mother never jokes about shopping. And she’ll insist on treating you, of course.’  
‘What? No, she can’t do that, I’m more than capable of buying myself a suit.’  
‘I know you are, John but I’d accept the offer if I were you. My mother can be very stubborn when she wants to be and you’ll save yourself a lot of time by accepting immediately.’  
‘Right. Well, now I know where you get it from anyway.’  
‘Get what?’  
‘Your stubbornness.’  
Sherlock leaps up from the sofa, indignation flashing in his eyes. ‘I am not stubborn!’  
John eyes him for a moment and then bursts out laughing. Sherlock merely glares until he has subsided.  
‘Can I have your mother’s number then?’ John asks eventually, once he has gotten a hold of himself. Irritably Sherlock withdraws his phone from his jacket pocket, scrolls through the contacts and rattles off a number before John has even reached his mobile.  
‘A little slower, possibly?’  
Once he has the number in his phone John presses the call button and turns away from Sherlock who has thrown himself back on the sofa, muttering about what a pointless waste of time it all is.  
After a couple of seconds the voice of the housekeeper, what was her name, Jones, that was it, answers.  
‘Good afternoon, Holmes residence.’  
‘Hi, er, hello – it’s, it’s John Watson. I’m, er, a friend of Sherlock’s...’ Mrs Jones’s voice interrupts John’s stumbling introduction.  
‘I’m afraid Master Sherlock doesn’t live at home anymore Mr Watson.’  
‘No, I – I know that. I actually want to speak with Mrs Holmes. Erm, Augusta. Is she in?’ John turns to glare at Sherlock who has now abandoned his glares and mutterings and has started sniggering. There is a rather long pause and then Mrs Jones replies, in a tone edged with suspicion.  
‘I’ll just see if she’s available.’  
‘Thank you.’   
There is silence on the other end for a couple of minutes, during which time John throws a cushion at Sherlock to try and make him stop laughing. Soon enough Augusta Holmes’s cultured voice comes through at the other end of the line.  
‘John! How lovely to hear from you. I presume you and Sherlock received the invitation?’  
‘Yes, it arrived this morning. I’m ringing about the, erm...’  
‘Yes, the shopping trip. I’m very much looking forward to it. Does tomorrow suit?’  
‘Er, yes, well I’ve got up until the New Year off work so I’m available whenever, really.’  
‘Excellent. I thought I’d send a car round for you at about ten o’clock and we can head into town. I was thinking of starting at Oxford Street. How does that sound?’  
‘Erm, yes. Fine.’ Starting at Oxford Street? John prides himself on being a man of patience but it seems Augusta Holmes’s shopping trip may try even his endurance.  
‘Fantastic. I’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow then.’  
‘Yes. Great. Bye.’  
John hangs up and stares at the phone in slight disbelief.  
‘I thought we were just going to go into a shop, I’d pick a suit and she’d insist on paying for it,’ he mutters to no-one in particular. Sherlock has sat up straight on the sofa and is looking positively gleeful.  
‘Oh no, John. My mother loves shopping. Especially in London. What time is she picking you up?’  
‘Ten. Tomorrow morning.’  
‘Well then...’ John turns to see that Sherlock has assumed his “concentrating” expression. ‘... you’ll probably be back here by about half past nine. Possibly a little later.’  
John gapes. ‘Half... half past nine! At night?’  
‘Well I don’t mean half an hour before she picks you up. I’m fairly sure time-travel hasn’t been invented yet, John.’  
Taking in the aghast expression on John’s face Sherlock dissolves into laughter again. John frowns and then a wicked smile spreads across his face.  
‘Well, laugh it up Sherlock, because you’ve got a phone call to make now.’  
‘No I haven’t,’ Sherlock responds instantly, sobering up.  
‘Yes, you have. To a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade. To apologise.’  
Sherlock looks slightly alarmed. ‘No, I shouldn’t ring now. He’ll need time to... I’ll ring him tomorrow...’ John folds his arms across his chest and pins the detective with a steely glare. Sherlock squirms a little on the sofa before flinging his hands up in exasperation.  
‘Fine!’ Quickly he withdraws his phone, stabs at a number and holds it to his ear.  
‘Be nice,’ John mouths at him as he hears Lestrade’s slightly tinny voice answer at the end of the line.  
‘Lestrade. It’s Sherlock. I’m ringing to say I’m very sorry for any upset I may have caused you earlier. I can assure you it wasn’t meant and I appreciate the bottle of wine you bought as an apology.’ He says this all very fast and looks about to hang up when Lestrade obviously says something in response. John watches Sherlock’s brows knit together slightly and then the detective smiles. ‘You evidently know us too well, Lestrade. He did and he made me promise to be nice.’  
John smiles and heads upstairs to collect the laundry from the hamper. When he returns to the living room, Sherlock has finished the call and is lounging on the sofa.  
‘What are you planning on doing today?’ John asks as he loads the clothes into the machine and hunts for the washing powder.  
‘Don’t know. No cases. Can’t think of any experiments. Bored.’  
‘Why don’t we go for a walk? It’s a nice day.’ John gestures out of the window at the bright blue sky. Sherlock huffs in annoyance.  
‘I’ve never understood this obssession people have with going for walks. You end up exactly where you started and have achieved nothing. No, staying inside is much more interesting.’  
John frowns. ‘You just said you were bored inside.’  
‘I’m less bored in here than I know I will be out there.’  
John laughs despite himself. ‘Alright. So you’re just going to lie there all day then?’  
‘Probably,’ Sherlock mutters.  
‘Right. Well I’m going to watch some Christmas t.v. so budge over.’ John shunts Sherlock to the other side of the sofa and sits down with a deep sigh, reaching for the television remote. Sherlock peers at him from over his arm.  
‘I might have wanted to sleep.’  
‘Well you can go upstairs for that. And what do you mean “you might want to sleep”? It’s hard enough to get you to bed at night, let alone halfway through the day.’

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘It was the housekeeper.’  
John groans aloud. ‘How can you possibly... it’s only ten minutes in!’ He narrows his eyes accusingly at Sherlock. ‘Have you seen this before?’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘I generally have far better things to do with my time than watch inane detective mysteries, and please note I use the word “mysteries” dubiously. And as for proof positive of her guilt you only have to note the deplorable state of the laundry basket.’  
John rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not even going to ask. But seeing as how you’re always right, I suppose there’s not much point in watching this anymore.’ He clicks off the television and stretches on the sofa. Across the room his phone beeps.  
‘It’s a text from Justin,’ he says in some surprise. ‘Him and his girlfriend are in the pub just down the road. They’re wondering if we wanted to join them.’  
‘God no,’ Sherlock mutters. ‘Dull. Pointless.’  
‘It might be quite good fun,’ John says cajolingly. ‘Justin’s a good laugh.’  
‘I don’t see the point in going somewhere with the express purpose of getting drunk with people I don’t know and really don’t care about. You know what normal people are like John. Pedestrian. Boring.’  
John’s good humour is starting to leave him, but he tamps down the anger rising. Instead he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugs himself into it.  
‘Where are you going?’ Sherlock demands from the sofa.  
‘To the pub. I’m going to have a good night, even if you’re not.’  
‘You’d honestly rather spend time with this Justin than me?’  
‘In the mood you’re currently in, to be honest, yes I would.’ John reaches the door and turns around. ‘And without Justin and his team’s help I could well have been too late to get you out of Moriarty’s grasp. He lost two men that night, just to help you. Think about that when you call him pedestrian.’

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As John enters the busy pub and scans around for a glimpse of Justin he is still trying to stub out the small glowing embers of anger.   
‘John! Mate – over here!’  
Looking in the direction of the shout, John spies Justin sitting in a far corner with a very pretty brunette who is, presumably, his girlfriend. He waves, orders a pint from the bar and wends his way over to them, careful not to spill his beer all over his jacket.  
‘Hi,’ he says breathlessly, finally reaching them, and placing his beer down on the table.  
‘You got my text then?’ Justin asks.  
‘Yeah. This must be...?’ John trails off, holding out a hand across the table. The girl takes it and smiles at him.  
‘Ella. I’m Justin’s girlfriend.’  
‘Nice to meet you. I’m John. How long have you two been together then?’  
They glance at each other with raised eyebrows. Justin answers.  
‘Just over three years, by my reckoning.’ He glances around. ‘I kinda thought you might bring Sherlock along. I’ve been wanting to meet him properly.’  
John winces slightly. ‘Yeah, well, he’s in a bit of a sulk at the moment so I left him in the flat.’  
Ella smiles. ‘Sherlock’s the one you guys had to go get from that psyco, right? Justin told me all about it. Sounds like an absolute nightmare.’  
John scratches at his head. ‘Yeah. It was pretty intense.’  
Justin fixes him with a firm stare. ‘So, did you take my advice? Did you tell him how you feel?’  
John flashes back to the scene in Scotland Yard. ‘Erm... not exactly. But everything turned out for the best anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘We are, you know, together now. As of last night.’  
He can almost see Ella melt. She beams at him. ‘Aww, that’s so sweet.’ John smiles back at her, a little bemused.   
‘Yeah. But anyway, as I said, he’s in a bit of a mood so...’  
Justin suddenly sits up straighter in his chair as a cold blast of air radiates through the pub, indicating that somebody has just come through the door.  
‘Hey... isn’t that him?’  
John twists around in his seat to look at the entrance. Sure enough, Sherlock is standing there, wrapped up in his dark greatcoat and ever-present blue scarf, his dark hair windswept and falling across his forehead. He spots them almost immediately and for an instant his eyes lock onto John’s. It doesn’t matter how many times John looks at Sherlock now, he always gets that same feeling, a shivery butterfly straight in the pit of his stomach.  
John watches as Sherlock starts making his way through the crowded pub, with a grace and elegance he could never match. He also notices how the majority of the women, and some of the men, turn to watch as he passes, open looks of admiration on their faces. He feels the sharp stab of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.  
Eventually Sherlock reaches their table and stands just behind John’s shoulder. Justin and Ella stand up to greet him.  
‘Hi, er... I’m Justin. It’s nice to meet you... again. Er, John said you weren’t coming tonight...’ Justin falters over his words but Sherlock clasps his outstretched hand and smiles.  
‘Nice to meet you again too. Under better circumstances this time, I think.’ He turns his attention to Ella who is blushing slightly.  
‘You must be Justin’s girlfriend.’  
‘Ella. Yes.’  
‘Sherlock. Lovely to meet you.’  
John shakes his head in amused disbelief. Even he can barely reconcile the irritable, childish Sherlock of half an hour ago, to this charming, friendly man.  
Sherlock takes off his coat and scarf, slings them across the back of the chair next to John, and folds his tall, slender frame into it in a seamless motion.   
Ella, who is presumably suddenly aware her mouth is slightly open, shuts it.  
‘I apologise for just dropping in like this,’ Sherlock says, his tone deep and rich. ‘I was feeling a little out of sorts earlier but I decided I should really take the opportunity to thank you in person,’ he turns his attention directly to Justin, ‘for helping John in getting me out of that house.’  
Justin smiles while Ella beams proudly at him. ‘Oh, it was nothing mate. Don’t mention it. Glad to see you looking better though. That bloke did quite a number on you didn’t he?’  
John sees a spasm of what might be pain flicker across Sherlock’s face before it is quickly masked again. He doubts anyone but him noticed. ‘Yes. Yes he did.’  
‘Still, let’s not talk about that, eh?’ John says cheerfully, unobtrusively grabbing hold of Sherlock’s uninjured hand under the table and clasping it tightly. Sherlock says nothing but the slight quirk of his lips indicates to John that he appreciates the gesture. ‘Sherlock... what are you drinking?’  
‘Oh, a lemonade will do me fine.’  
John frowns at him. ‘C’mon, we’re all drinking. Push the boat out a bit.’  
Sherlock grimaces distastefully, a hint of his usual self coming through, ‘Fine. What is that you’ve got there?’ He indicates John’s pint.  
‘Fosters.’  
‘I’ll have a rum and coke.’  
John rolls his eyes and gets up to go to the bar. ‘Double or a single?’  
‘Double,’ Sherlock says, reasoning that if he’s expected to have a night in the pub drinking he may as well do the thing properly.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock weave their way back to Baker Street sometime just after eleven o’clock. John, after consuming at least five pints, is swaying slightly and this prompts Sherlock to wind a long arm about his waist to stop him careering into the street. After his second double rum and coke Sherlock decided to give up the drinking idea since it was obvious that John would be doing enough for both of them. He’d stuck to plain coke for the rest of the night.  
It hadn’t actually been as bad as he’d expected. Granted Justin is far from a genius, but then most people are. And Sherlock suspects that he actually knows a lot more than he lets on. Clever or not, it is true that Sherlock owes him for helping John get him out of Moriarty’s clutches and Sherlock decides that if push comes to shove he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Justin. His girlfriend Ella is sweet but very... normal. Not like his John, he thinks affectionately, glancing down at the top of John’s sandy head.  
‘Didn’t realise it was this far,’ John mutters after a few moments. Sherlock grins.  
‘You’ve been walking in diagonals, you’re making the whole trip double the length.’  
‘’M not. You keep pushing me.’  
‘John, I’m not pushing you. I’m trying to keep you from walking straight into the road.’  
Eventually they reach the door of 221B and John stands, hiccuping gently to himself while Sherlock fiddles in his pockets for the key. As John enters he trips over the doorstep and falls straight onto Sherlock who, luckily, braces himself just in time. He supports John by the shoulders as the shorter man stares up at him slightly blearily.  
‘You really do have beautiful eyes,’ John slurs.   
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him. ‘Thank you. I think we should get you straight upstairs and into bed. Tomorrow you’re going shopping with my mother, remember? You need sleep.’  
‘Pfaah. Sleep’s boring.’  
Sherlock smiles wryly. ‘Oh dear, I think I’m a bit of a bad influence on you. Come on.’ With some difficulty, for although Sherlock is fairly strong John also weighs a fair amount, Sherlock hoists John up the stairs and into the flat. He manages to get him just to the threshold of the bedroom when John digs his heels in and refuses to go any further.  
‘I don’t wanna go to sleep. ‘M not tired.’  
‘John, you’re quite drunk. You need to sleep it off. I’ll get you some water otherwise you’re going to have a terrible hangover in the morning.’ He turns to go but stops when John’s hand lands on his arm.   
‘Wait, I wanna tell you something.’  
‘What?’  
John stumbles a little closer and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Automatically Sherlock responds and draws John closer against his chest.  
‘I... I really love you, you know.’  
Sherlock laughs a little. ‘I did know. Now get into bed. I’ll go get your water.’  
‘Alright. I’m sorry we fought.’  
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sherlock waits at the door until he sees John fall onto the bed and then heads downstairs.  
In two minutes he is back again to find John snoring lightly spreadeagled on top of the duvet, fully dressed. Grinning slightly he places the glass down on the bedside table and sets to work getting John’s shoes, socks, jeans and jacket off.  
He heaves the duvet out from under John’s inert body and carefully tucks it back around him before stripping down to boxers himself and sliding in beside John.  
John snuffles a little in his sleep and unconsciously shifts so that his back is pressing against Sherlock’s chest. The detective presses a light kiss into the sandy hair and wraps his arms around his John. He hopes the doctor gets a good night’s sleep, shopping with his mother can be a gruelling experience. With a small smile to himself he drifts off to sleep.


	21. The Party

Chapter Twenty-One

The Party

The doorbell rings. Sherlock jumps and sends the petri dish flying across the kitchen. It overturns on the tiles near the fridge and almost instantly a hissing noise fills the room along with plumes of smoke.  
‘Blast,’ Sherlock mutters, pushing his goggles up into his hair. Hurriedly he crosses to the dish and bends down to examine the damage. Luckily it isn’t a particularly strong acid he’s experimenting with, however it is still potent enough to have burned a small hole in the kitchen tiles.  
Delicately Sherlock picks up the still steaming dish with his gloved hand and places it in the sink. He stares at the burn for a few seconds before grabbing a teatowel off the side and throwing it over the mark. He glances at the clock and sees that it is dead on ten o’clock. He had meant to wake John at least half an hour ago but the experiment had yielded such intriguing and unexpected results he completely lost track of time.  
Gracefully he flies down the stairs and opens the door. Augusta Holmes stands on the doorstep, removing her gloves.  
‘Ah, darling!’ Augusta begins before her gaze travels from Sherlock’s choice of attire (a stained, tattered apron and his boxers) up to the goggles embedded in Sherlock’s crazier than usual curls. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’  
‘Come in, Mummy,’ Sherlock mutters, ushering her in and shutting the door. ‘John’s still asleep, I’m afraid. I’ll get you settled in the living room and then I’ll go and get him up.’  
Augusta looks quite scandalised as she ascends the stairs after her youngest son. ‘Still asleep! It’s ten o’clock! I did tell him I would be arriving at ten.’  
‘I know but he was quite... tired last night.’  
Augusta sighs and then glances around with interest as Sherlock leads the way into the living room.  
‘Well, this is nice,’ she remarks, seating herself elegantly on the sofa. ‘You know I think it’s ridiculous that I haven’t seen your apartment before now.’  
‘Well, there’s not much to see Mummy, is there? Living room, kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms...’  
‘Don’t be pedantic dear,’ Augusta scolds gently. ‘Now hadn’t you better go and see about getting John up?’  
Sherlock heads towards the stairs and then remembers his manners. He turns quickly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’  
Augusta peers tentatively into the kitchen which is still scattered with the detritus of Sherlock’s abandoned experiment. ‘I think I’ll be fine for the time being, darling.’  
Sherlock nods and then bounds up the stairs to the bedroom. John is exactly where he left him, snoring lightly, his face half buried in the pillow. Sherlock perches on the side of the bed and reaches over to shake his shoulder.  
‘John. John, wake up.’  
The doctor merely groans and flaps a hand in Sherlock’s direction. ‘Go ‘way. Tired.’  
Sherlock grins and shuffles across to curl in behind John, wrapping an arm around his warm waist. ‘John,’ he coos into his ear, nibbling slightly on the earlobe. He hears John’s answering mutter of interest and, on reaching his good hand down John’s torso, he feels John’s response to his stimulus. Fun though this would undoubtedly be, he cannot afford for John to appear in front of his mother with an erection. Reluctantly he removes his hand. ‘You have to wake up,’ he murmurs. ‘My mother is downstairs. You’re supposed to go shopping, remember?’  
This serves to wake John up somewhat. He sits upright in bed and wipes a hand across his eyes. ‘Bugger – what time is it?’ he asks.  
‘About five past ten. And I should warn you, my mother does not like to be kept waiting.’  
Awareness is gradually returning to John, along with a healthy dose of panic. ‘Why on earth didn’t you wake me?’ he shouts, flinging his legs out of bed, and attempting to stand up. He sways a little once on his feet and has to hold onto the headboard of the bed to keep his balance.   
Tiredly he rubs at his eyes with his other hand until the dizziness passes and then starts hunting around the room for his clothes.  
‘Did I pass out the other night or something?’ he asks Sherlock, who is leaning against the door and smirking.  
‘Yes. I went to get you a glass of water and by the time I came back you’d fallen asleep. Fully clothed, I might add.’  
John pulls on his jeans and groans. ‘Oh God. I didn’t do anything embarrassing did I?’  
‘You mean apart from when you danced on the table in the pub?’  
John stares at Sherlock’s impassive face for a few seconds before scowling. ‘Don’t even try, Sherlock. I know I didn’t do that.’  
Sherlock remains blank for a few seconds longer before giving in. ‘No, you didn’t. You did say I have beautiful eyes though.’  
John pulls on his favourite jumper (blue with white stripes) and grins at the detective. ‘In vino veritas as they say.’  
Sherlock smiles slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘I’m impressed. And thank you.’  
‘You’re welcome. So where is your mother now?’  
‘Downstairs. I offered her a cup of tea but she didn’t want one.’  
‘Did she see the kitchen?’  
‘Yes.’  
‘Well then, I’m not surprised.’ John rakes a hand through his hair a few times then turns to face Sherlock. ‘How do I look?’  
Sherlock grimaces slightly. ‘How exactly am I supposed to answer that, John? You look just like you usually do. Of course you have slightly red puffy skin around your eyes, a testament to your tiredness. They’re also slightly bloodshot. Your skin looks a little dry and pallid, probably due to your dehydration, I did try to tell you to drink some water, and your hair is dishevelled. You probably ought to brush your teeth as well.’  
John’s face drops slightly and he nods. ‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll... er... I’ll just go to the bathroom then.’  
As he passes by Sherlock near the door he feels a slender hand clamp onto his wrist. He stops immediately but doesn’t look at the detective.  
‘You didn’t let me finish,’ Sherlock says.  
‘Go on then. What else? I have food stuck between my teeth? I stink of alcohol? My outfit doesn’t look right at all?’ He can’t quite help the bitterness that is more than evident in his tone. Sherlock’s grasp becomes tighter.  
‘No. I was going to stay, but you’re still stunning.’  
John blinks and feels himself being twisted around and then Sherlock’s lips are on his, tongue probing for entrance. He sighs and feels himself melt into Sherlock’s chest, responding with equal passion. Sherlock’s good hand finds its way to the back of John’s neck and strokes the soft skin there, the hand with the splint rests on the small of John’s back, pressing him in closer.   
‘We can’t do this now,’ John mutters eventually, pulling back reluctantly. ‘I don’t want to keep your mother waiting and I do need to do my teeth. My mouth feels like something crawled in it and died.’  
‘Right. Well, I’ll go downstairs then. I need to finish off my experiment. It’s shaping up to be quite interesting.’  
John pauses on his way out of the room and smiles back at Sherlock. ‘Does this mean you’ll keep yourself from boredom enough so that when I come back the flat will still be standing?’  
Sherlock gazes back quite solemnly. ‘Possibly, John. Very possibly.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock hears John’s key in the lock and glances around the kitchen. It’s bad, there’s no other word to describe it. Nearly every available counter is cluttered with dishes, samples, ingredients and piles of paper with Sherlock’s cursive scrawl. The counters have several new burn marks, one of the failed examples is smoking in the sink, the oven has been scorched and Sherlock is fairly sure that at least two of John’s saucepans have been rendered completely unusable.   
He straightens up, pushes his goggles off his face and wipes the back of his good hand across his cheek, leaving a striking sweep of soot as he does so. The clock says nine o’clock. Half an hour out. Damn.  
He hears the heavy thud of John’s steps on the stairs and then the creak as the door opens. Sherlock gazes at the kitchen again despairingly. Could he perhaps pretend he went out and found it like this when he returned? No, no good. John would never buy it. Maybe he could say he was trying to make dinner for John and the oven exploded? No... the bags of human organs and the scientific notes would give him away. Added to that there are no actual edible ingredients anywhere in the kitchen.  
Steeling himself for the inevitable explosion he dusts down his apron and walks into the living room.  
John has collapsed in his chair, a couple of expensive looking shopping bags beside him. Sherlock quickly takes in his features. Drooping bags under his eyes, mouth slightly downcast, his heavier than usual tread on the stairs means that he is no doubt exhausted. His clothes are far more rumpled than they were when he left, a testament no doubt to the amount of times he had to remove them to try outfits on. He quickly stifles the thought which flashes through his mind that he wished he’d come along, if only to sit in the changing rooms with John.  
In any case, John is clearly mentally and physically exhausted. Sherlock’s quick mind rapidly makes calculations about just how angry John is going to be (taking in his current mood) when he sees the state of the kitchen. Conclusion, not good.   
Casually Sherlock seats himself on the sofa and flings one leg over the other.   
‘Successful trip?’ he asks slightly sarcastically. ‘I see that my mother forced you to try on at least eight... no... nine different suits.’  
‘How...?’ John starts tiredly then shrugs. ‘No. Don’t worry. You’re just going to show off again.’  
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m a natural show-off John, you know that. Now, would you like a cup of tea?’ He figures that John is going to want one soon and he’d much rather delay the inevitable discovery of the state of the kitchen. The gesture, however, is unusual enough for John to look at him quizzically.  
‘You? Make tea? What have you done?’  
‘Nothing,’ Sherlock responds, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘Honestly John, I just want to make you more relaxed. I know what shopping with my mother can do to someone.’  
Luckily John doesn’t pursue the point and merely lets his head fall back against the back of the chair with a dull thud, closing his eyes.  
‘Fine. Tea would be great. Try not to destroy the kitchen.’  
Too late, Sherlock thinks with a small grin, as he gets up to boil the kettle.  
‘So you found one then?’ he calls as the water heats up and he searches for two mugs that are clear of hazardous chemicals. Eventually he finds them, right at the back of the cupboard.  
‘Found what?’  
‘A suit, of course, what did you think I meant? Can I see it?’  
‘Yes, we found one. After we’d been in at least twenty different shops. Ted Baker, I think. I’m not sure though. I lost count after the sixth store. My brain started going blurry.’  
‘Yes, that can happen sometimes if you’re not used to it,’ Sherlock responds absently, hunting for the teabags. He eventually finds them cunningly hidden behind the plastic bag containing the human liver.  
‘And no you can’t see it. Not yet. It’s a surprise.’  
Sherlock finishes making the tea, gazes once more around at the kitchen, and walks back to the living room, placing John’s mug in front of him.  
‘If my mother had any say in it, I’m sure it’s a lovely suit.’ Realising that it is unrealistic for him to hope that John is going to remain oblivious to the destruction just behind him for the rest of the evening, Sherlock stages a theatrical yet convincing yawn. ‘Right, well, I’m quite tired. I’m going to go to bed.’  
John stares at him. ‘Now? It’s only...’ he glances at the clock. ‘Quarter past nine! When do you ever go to bed at quarter past nine? When do you ever go to bed without me nagging you?’  
Sherlock stands up and straightens his apron huffily. ‘I can’t help it if I’m tired, John. I’m going to sleep.’ He picks up his tea and makes his way out of the room. If he tries really hard he may even be able to be asleep by the time John discovers his mess.  
He finishes the tea in bed, flicking through one of John’s old medical journals as he does so, then switches off the light and lies there in the darkness. He can hear the distant muted sounds of the television from the living room. Good. John obviously hasn’t decided to get up just yet.   
God. How can people do this? Night after night, just lying in the dark. It’s such a pointless waste of time. Yes, he has found it surprisingly easy to sleep recently, but he realises that he only manages it when John is in the bed with him.  
Irritably he turns onto his side and groans slightly as he jolts his injured hand against the sheets. The pain has dulled over the weeks to a dull ache and John has assured him that he’ll be able to have the splint off soon.   
Downstairs there are muted noises as John gets up from his chair. Sherlock listens intently, cataloguing John’s every movement. Picking his mug up from the table, turning and walking towards the kitchen... any moment now...  
‘SHERLOCK!’

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

A couple of days later – the 21st December – Day of the Party

‘John, the car’s outside. Are you ready?’  
‘Almost!’ John calls back, slightly desperately, from his position in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It’s been so long since he’s worn a suit and he isn’t entirely sure it looks as good now as it did in the Ted Baker changing rooms with a male attendant helping him out. Irritably he tugs at his bowtie again, trying to get it straight.   
It’s no good. He’s never going to get it looking right. He frowns at himself in the mirror, absently tugging at the bowtie again.   
‘John!’  
Sherlock’s calls are becoming increasingly louder and John rolls his eyes. Even though Sherlock is evidently not looking forwards at all to this party, it seems he still cannot bear to be late to it. With one last despairing look in the mirror John shoves his wallet into his pocket and goes downstairs to where Sherlock is waiting.  
He hasn’t seen the detective in his suit yet and when he enters the living room he almost has to grab onto the doorframe to stop himself from falling. As it is he is fairly sure his mouth drops open most unattractively. Sherlock’s slender frame is encased in a pitch black suit which clings like a second skin. The dark waistcoat cinches in at his waist and the jacket, cut to perfection, hangs just to the tops of his thighs. He is fiddling absently at the thick white tie around his neck and his wild curls seem to have been tamed by some magic so they now lie in elegant waves across his forehead and curl softly at the nape of his neck.  
He glances up as John enters, those piercing grey eyes latching straight onto him. ‘Ahh good, you’re...’ he tails off and his gaze rakes John up and down. The doctor swallows and pulls at the bowtie again self-consciously.  
‘I don’t think it looks right, it looked much better in the...’  
‘Don’t talk, John,’ Sherlock says in a throaty voice, pacing towards him slowly, a predatory look gleaming in his eyes. The command is quite unnecessary. With Sherlock prowling towards him like that John’s mouth has gone dry and he doesn’t think he could have talked even if he’d wanted to.  
Sherlock reaches him and extends his good hand, a pale finger trailing down the luxurious material of John’s jacket. John bites his lip and Sherlock’s eyes flick to the movement briefly before resuming his examination. He moves his finger upwards to the bowtie, and from there to the skin of John’s neck just above the collar.  
‘You should wear suits more often, John,’ Sherlock murmurs hoarsely, leaning forwards. ‘You’ve been holding out on me.’ John can feel Sherlock’s breath against his lips and he groans slightly. Giving into his desire he moves forward and kisses Sherlock deeply, tugging at Sherlock’s curls roughly.   
Sherlock’s good hand is roaming all over John’s back, from his shoulder blades to the top of his buttocks. His injured hand is resting gently against John’s cheek, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin.  
After a minute or so Sherlock pulls away, breathing heavily, his lips reddened and even plumper than usual.  
‘We really do have to go, John, otherwise Mycroft will have a fit. Although, seeing you like this, I’d much rather stay here...’  
John blushes deeply and follows Sherlock out the door, admiring the way the detective’s suit trousers highlight his slender legs. Once at the door Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and throws a disgruntled look back at John.  
‘Right, let’s get this farce over with shall we?’  
Clambering into the car next to Sherlock, John glances across at him. ‘Why exactly do you have such a problem with this party? It can’t just be your family.’  
‘You haven’t met them yet,’ Sherlock responds darkly, tapping away on his phone.  
‘But, everyone has a dysfunctional family. Well, at least most people have a few distant relations who are a bit... odd.’  
Sherlock sighs and puts his phone in his pocket. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’  
John shrugs. ‘I just want to know what’s really bothering you.’  
‘Fine,’ Sherlock bites out. ‘You’re right, it’s not just my family. My family would be the easy part. When I was a child it won’t surprise you to know that I was quite isolated a lot of the time. I was always far more interested in science and knowledge than other children. My mother worried about me, she was always trying to find ways to get me to mix with people my own age. Mycroft, of course, being seven years older than me didn’t count.’  
John sits silent, hardly daring even to breathe too loudly. This is the first time that Sherlock has fully opened up about his childhood to him and he doesn’t want to do or say anything to make him clam up again. Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues.  
‘So she used to invite several other boys of my age around to the house. All suitable, educated, privileged children... like me. She was underestimating my social abilities wildly. As long as she was around everything was fine. They were polite and friendly, just as well-brought up children should be. But as soon as she left the room they made it very clear to me that my whole existence was intolerable to them. It was the usual; taunts, name-calling, interspersed occasionally with bouts of physical violence. I’ve always been skinny and although even at ten or eleven I was taller than most of them there was nothing I could do to defend myself.  
‘My mother never found out about what went on, I was too ashamed to tell her. She was so desperate for me to have friends I simply never disillusioned her. I grew up and moved out as soon as I could. However my mother continues to invite these “boys”, believing they’re my friends, although of course they’re now in their early thirties, to her party each year. It’s the done thing in her social circle. And they always come. And they’re going to be here this year, just like every year. I’m not particularly looking forward to seeing them. That’s why. Are you happy now?’  
John blinks. ‘Jesus, Sherlock. I’m sorry, I never realised...’  
‘There’s no reason why you should have. You’re not a mind-reader.’ John sighs as he takes note of Sherlock’s tone and body language. It’s classic behaviour from the detective. He becomes a lot harsher and he has shifted himself almost to the other side of the car. John reaches out a hand and clasps Sherlock’s. The detective doesn’t look at him, but John can see a muscle twitching in that pale, stony jaw.  
‘Yeah, well. There’s something different this year, anyway.’  
‘Oh yes? What’s that?’  
‘I’m with you. You’re not on your own anymore.’  
Sherlock doesn’t respond but John feels the grip on his hand tighten slightly.

XXXXXXXXXX

‘Oh, just look at you two! John you look so dashing! And Sherlock, darling, handsome as always.’  
‘Thank you, Mummy,’ Sherlock mutters, walking into the lobby and handing his scarf to the housekeeper. John follows him in, nods an awkward hello to the housekeeper and glances around. The lobby is deserted, although there is the sound of music, the tinkling of glasses and low laughter and conversation coming from the rooms to the left.  
‘You’re a little late,’ Augusta says reprovingly.  
‘Sorry about that, Mummy. John had some trouble with his bowtie,’ Sherlock murmurs. John glares at him.  
‘Well, never mind. You’re here now, that’s what matters. Everyone’s through here, and they’re all dying to see you again.’  
Sherlock snorts in disbelief. ‘There’s no need to lie to make me feel better.’  
Augusta raises a delicate eyebrow. ‘I am not given to lying, darling. Dorian has said to me already how much he wants to have a chat with you to apologise for last time.’  
‘And how many sherries has he had?’ Sherlock asks caustically, nevertheless he makes his way into the large room on the left, followed by Augusta and John.  
John, having been a little distracted the last time he was here, gazes around him in interest. The room is open and spacious, with a couple of small sofas along the walls. The windows are large and the walls are papered with a delicate, elegant floral pattern. John’s feet sink into the lush carpet which is a deep crimson in colour. Small lamps are lit in corners and a chandelier is dimmed overhead, shedding the room in a warm, amber light. A fire crackles in the fireplace to John’s immediate right. The walls are filled with ornate paintings, several of which look to be family portraits, if the profusion of dark hair, tall slender figures and piercing eyes are any indication. A waiter glides over to them, with a tray of champagne flutes. Sherlock takes one and sips, looking around in a disinterested manner. John helps himself as well and goes to stand next to Sherlock.   
The room is filled with small groups of people, each with a flute in their hands, all talking animatedly. Upon spotting them, Mycroft detaches himself with a little bow from the people he was talking to and approaches.   
‘Well, Doctor Watson. You do scrub up well I must say. And Sherlock, it’s a wonder that suit still fits you.’  
‘Some people find that remaining the same weight is surprisingly easy,’ Sherlock snipes back at him waspishly.  
‘Boys!’ Augusta says warningly. ‘Come along, John. I want to introduce you. Sherlock, Mycroft, can you mingle please? And try not to kill each other.’  
‘Of course, Mummy,’ Mycroft murmurs, taking Sherlock’s elbow and attempting to draw him towards the nearest group of people. John has to bite back a grin as he sees Sherlock childishly wrench his elbow out of his older brother’s grip and stride off in completely the opposite direction.  
‘They’ll be the death of me, my two boys,’ Augusta says, leading John into the group of guests. ‘Now, what would you like me to introduce you as? Sherlock’s boyfriend? Partner?’ She hesitates, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘Colleague?’ John bristles slightly at the implication that he wouldn’t want to be publicly branded as being with Sherlock.  
‘Partner will be fine,’ he says curtly.  
‘Partner it is,’ she replies with a beaming smile and a pat of his arm. ‘Now, I want you to meet my sister Elizabeth... she should be around here somewhere... ah yes. Elizabeth! This is Doctor John Watson, Sherlock’s partner.’  
An elegant woman, almost an exact replica of Augusta, approaches them, smiling broadly.  
‘A partner of Sherlock’s? I confess myself a little surprised. We never thought he’d find someone, did we, Augusta? And how long have you been involved with Sherlock Doctor Watson?’  
John draws himself up slightly straighter. ‘I’ve been his flatmate and colleague for around ten months now. I’ve been his partner for about...’ he debates lying but decides against it. With all these Holmes genes around he’d probably be found out in a second, ‘... three days.’ Elizabeth looks slightly taken aback and then laughs loudly and slightly harshly.  
‘Three days! Dear me! No wonder you haven’t run off screaming!’  
‘I’ve lived with him for ten months, he hasn’t scared me off yet,’ John responds shortly, rubbing his fingers together agitatedly.  
‘Yes, but...’ she laughs again and then pats his arm patronisingly. ‘Just so long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters I suppose.’  
Augusta, clearly sensing John’s annoyance, steers him away. ‘Elizabeth was never very good at tact,’ she murmurs. ‘She’s very fond of Sherlock, really.’  
The next hour or so passes in a similar manner. John is beginning to understand why Sherlock never enjoys coming to these family parties. His relatives are a mixture of borderline alcoholics, snobs and homophobics. To the latter he notices that Augusta introduces him as Sherlock’s colleague, not partner.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock leans against a cabinet in the study, taking a well-needed rest from socialising and mingling. He cannot stand it, he doesn’t want to be here. Seeing all those faces again, judging him and finding him wanting...  
He takes a deep draught of the water in his glass. Despite the overwhelming urge to get drunk to dull the pain of mingling with his family he decides that he’d be better prepared for whatever they have to throw at him if he has a clear head. To make matters worse he has seen Cameron, Tom, Francis and Spencer, although thankfully he doesn’t think they have seen him. Predictably he spotted them cosying up to a few of his more aesthetically blessed cousins. Most of them are well on their way to being drunk already and it’s barely nine o’clock. The telltale signs are all there. Sherlock observed them from the safety of a dark corner and noticed immediately the way that Cameron in particular, the leader of the group, was swaying as he attempted to paw at Beatrice, Sherlock’s Aunt Elizabeth’s youngest daughter. Disgusting, Sherlock thinks as he takes another sip of water. Beatrice is only seventeen, almost half Cameron’s age.   
He peers around the door of the study to the main room. He cannot see John, no doubt he is suffocating amidst all Sherlock’s relations. The detective smiles slightly. He did warn John against attending. He glances around again. He can’t see Cameron or any of his gang anywhere. This causes him a flicker of unease. He had played it down to John in the car coming here, but the reality is that the treatment he received at their hands as a boy was rather more violent than he would have John believe. Aggressive homophobics, the lot of them, and although Sherlock hadn’t actually worked out he was gay until around age fifteen, apparently they’d figured it out a lot earlier. Age hasn’t mellowed them either. The last time he attended this party, around four years ago now, they’d all made it more than evident to him that his very presence was distinctly unwelcome. Never mind the fact that it was his family’s party and not theirs. The arrogance of the well-bred, he suspects wryly.  
The whole situation is so utterly tedious. He could be back at Baker Street right now, curled up with John on the sofa, watching rubbish t.v., an occupation he has to admit he has become scarily fond of. And it is much better with John because the doctor always gets so amused by his deductions of the characters.  
He needs a cigarette. There are too many people, he can’t take the stares anymore, the whispers of his extended family about his peculiarities. He knows that Mycroft uses this study often when he comes to visit Mummy, which is a lot more often than him, but then Mycroft always was an insufferable suck-up. The point is that Mycroft smokes cigarettes and Sherlock knows he always keeps a spare pack in the desk drawer along with a lighter.  
Swiftly he crosses and opens the drawer. Excellent. Mycroft being a creature of habit has worked in his favour. He takes the crumpled packet and the lighter and makes his way back through the throng of people, outside and onto the patio. It’s dark, Mummy hasn’t switched the outside lights on yet. He finds a fairly dark corner, leans against the wall and lights the cigarette.  
Taking a deep drag he inhales deeply and sighs with pleasure. Marlboro. Not his usual preferred brand, but it will do to calm his nerves and clear his mind. The night air is quiet until he hears stumbling footsteps. He narrows his eyes. Four people. Inebriated, that much is obvious from the irregularity of their feet hitting the paving slabs of the patio. Swiftly he considers stubbing out his cigarette and making his way back to the isolation of the study but before he can do so, they round the corner.  
Sherlock groans internally. Cameron and his band of idiotic cronies. He supposes it will be too much to hope that in their drunken state they don’t notice him, and he is right. In fact, Francis trips over him in the darkness, alerting the others to his presence.  
‘Well... if it isn’t our favourite faggot.’  
Sherlock brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply, exhaling a stream of smoke into their faces.  
‘Disappointing,’ he drawls casually. ‘I had rather hoped you would have been able to think up a more innovative insult in the three or four years since we’ve last seen each other.’  
Cameron, the tallest of the four but still only coming up to Sherlock’s chin, smirks nastily. ‘Smoking’s a filthy habit, Sherlock. But then again, you’re a filthy sort of person, aren’t you?’  
The other three laugh dutifully. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. ‘Now that we’ve got the pleasantries over, Cameron, I have to return to my mother’s party. If you’ll excuse me...’ He pushes himself away from the wall and attempts to make his way past them. He should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy. Tom grabs his shoulder and shoves him back.  
‘Not so fast.’ Cameron’s small blue eyes dart down to Sherlock’s hand. ‘Yes, I saw you’d managed to break your fingers. Or rather, someone of exceedingly good taste broke them. Who was it? Remind me to send a thank-you note.’  
Sherlock winces as the memory assaults him. ‘Yes well, you can’t. He’s dead.’  
‘Who was it, Sherlock? One of your queer boyfriends get angry with you?’  
So perfect, Sherlock darling. As I always knew you would be. And now... we’ll be together. And I’ll have ruined you.  
Sherlock shudders as his mind insistently replays the feeling of that intrusive finger... circling...  
Cameron laughs raucously. ‘Oh, looks like we hit a nerve, boys!’ He peers into Sherlock’s eyes, his rancid, beer-soaked breath gusting across Sherlock’s face, almost making him gag. ‘Domestic violence, eh? How tragic. But then, we always knew you’re a freak. Stands to reason that nobody else can stand the sight of you.’  
Ignore him, Sherlock’s mind is screaming at him. Focus, Sherlock. Think about how ignorant they are, they’re animals.  
But it doesn’t help. Not when his mind is assaulted with memories of Moriarty. Think about John. He desperately glances at the brightly lit windows of the party-room. He can see the guests mingling inside, laughing and sipping their drinks. But of course, they cannot see him. He and the four other men are in a dark corner and anyway, for people in a well-lit room indoors, seeing outside into darkness is virtually impossible. All they will see are their own reflections. There is no help for him in there.  
‘Get away from me, Cameron,’ he hisses, finally dropping his cigarette to the floor and grinding it with the heel of his shoe.   
Cameron sways slightly and leers at Sherlock. ‘Oh, no. I don’t think so.’ He eyes Sherlock thoughtfully. ‘You know, you were a total little bastard. I remember that time you told me about my father having all those affairs, don’t think I don’t. One of the first times I came to “play”. You took one look and reeled everything off.’ He leans closer, his blonde fringe flopping over his blood-shot eyes. ‘You freak. You’re a fucking psycho, you know that?’  
‘It’s been said before,’ Sherlock retorts, trying to fight down the rising panic. Panicking will not help him now. If it had just been Cameron alone, Sherlock would not have worried. In his youth he did well in boxing and he’s sure that a well-placed jab would have laid Cameron out. But, unfortunately, he surrounds himself with others and... good though Sherlock is... he doesn’t fancy his chances against four. Especially not with two broken fingers on one hand.  
John, where are you? he thinks and then mentally rebukes himself. He doesn’t want to sound like some pitiful damsel in distress, not even in his own mind.  
‘So... while we’re here... I suppose you’re on your own. Again.’ Cameron glances around at his friends, who all laugh on cue.  
‘Of course he is, Cam, who on earth would want to come to something like this with queerboy?’ Spencer drawls lazily, lighting a cigarette of his own and drawing on it deeply.  
‘I did actually come with someone,’ Sherlock responds tightly, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of responding, but unable to help himself. Somewhere inside him the isolated eleven-year-old wants them to know that he is worthy, that someone cares.  
Cameron nods understandingly. ‘Of course you did, Sherry, of course you did. Who is he, the invisible man?’  
‘Don’t call me that,’ Sherlock snaps, irritated out of his panic. ‘My God, look at you all. What a pathetic example of the human race. You make Anderson look virtually evolved.’  
Abruptly Cameron’s hand flies out and grabs Sherlock’s throat, pinning him back against the wall. Sherlock attempts to take deep, even breaths and not panic. ‘I don’t know who the fuck Anderson is. Probably one of your bum-buddies. But if you ever insult me like that again, Sherlock, it will be the last thing you do.’ He presses tighter on Sherlock’s windpipe and the detective begins to choke harshly. Cameron gestures to Spencer. ‘Hey, Spence. Stub that cigarette out on his hand. Go on.’ His words are slurred and Sherlock knows that if he hadn’t been drunk it would never have gone this far.  
‘Aw, look Cam, I don’t think so...’ Spencer starts off, taking a step backwards. ‘Let’s just punch him a few times and go. He’s not worth our time. Besides, didn’t you want to keep on chatting to Beatrice?’  
Cameron turns an ugly look on his friend. ‘Spence... I told you to stub that out on his hand. It’ll be fun. And fuck Beatrice. She’s a frigid bitch anyway.’  
‘She’s seventeen!’ Sherlock chokes out, disgusted enough to force the words from his lips.  
‘Still a frigid bitch,’ Cameron remarks casually, ‘doesn’t know a good thing when she sees it.’  
Filled with a sudden surge of anger, Sherlock lurches away from the wall and lashes out with his fist. He catches Cameron on his right cheekbone and the other man releases his choke-hold, spinning around with the force of the punch and almost falling over. He clutches at his cheek and turns back to face Sherlock, his eyes burning with fury.  
‘Oh, that is it freak.’

XXXXXXXXX

John takes another sip from his second flute of champagne. He doesn’t particularly want to get drunk tonight and so is taking it slow. The same cannot be said of many of the other guests, most of whom are in various stages of inebriation already. He stands chatting by the windows with Charlotte, one of Sherlock’s many cousins, an attractive brunette. Out of all Sherlock’s relatives she is by far one of the most normal.   
In the couple of hours he has been here he has found out that she has a job as a Personal Assistant in London, is a vegetarian and has recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend of five years.  
‘He was a dickhead,’ she says succinctly, taking another sip of her drink. ‘Who dumps somebody after five years in a text?’  
‘He did that?’ John asks incredulously.  
‘Oh yeah. Said he didn’t have enough signal to call. Strange, that he had enough to text and not ring, isn’t it?’  
John laughs and then immediately feels bad. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...’  
She shrugs and pats him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘It’s fine. I’m over it. In fact, if you weren’t already with my darling cousin I’d have probably made a move on you by now.’  
John gulps, slightly surprised that this gorgeous, tall, leggy brunette (who, now he thinks about it, is basically a female version of Sherlock in terms of appearance) actually finds him attractive. ‘Really?’  
She laughs. ‘Oh yeah. Captain in the army? I’ve always been a sucker for a man in uniform.’ She eyes him speculatively. ‘Don’t think I’m being rude but... why are you with Sherlock? I mean, I personally love the guy but... he is a little, odd, don’t you think?’  
‘Oh, definitely. But he’s fascinating, stunning, and when you get to know him, really kind. Added to that, I’m never bored.’  
She grins. ‘Ah yes. I’ve read your blog actually. Great fun – sounds like you two get into some proper scrapes together!’  
‘Yes, we have at that.’ John pauses, glancing around the room. ‘Speaking of Sherlock, have you seen him recently?’  
Charlotte follows his gaze. ‘Actually no, I haven’t. I said hello to him of course, but that was about an hour ago.’  
Out of the corner of his eye John spots slight movement from beyond the window, out in the darkness. Frowning he peers closer, trying to see anything beyond the glinting reflections.  
‘I’m just... going to get some air.’  
Charlotte glances at him. ‘Are you okay, John?’  
‘I’m fine. I’ll see you in a bit.’  
He is sure he is probably being stupid but there’s a horrible churning in his stomach. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in awhile now and Charlotte has already mentioned the fact that some tosser had tried to chat up her youngest sister Beatrice. From the way she described him John is forcefully reminded of the boys Sherlock was telling him about in the car on the way here. He makes his way out of the french doors and shuts them quietly behind him. Now he is away from the tinkling music, laughing and chatter of the party he can actually hear. The night is quiet apart from sounds of some sort of scuffle going on to his right.  
As he strains his ears he hears a pained groan and a dull thud, followed by many more. Moving swiftly he makes his way over and then freezes. In a dark corner of the patio he can spot four men grouped together. They are all facing a fifth figure, and the tall silhouette identifies him immediately as Sherlock. As John watches one of the four men sinks a fist into Sherlock’s stomach, making him double over.  
‘How d’you like that, eh, faggot?’ the man sneers at him. John’s fists clench and he takes a couple of deep breaths. He doesn’t want to lose his cool at Augusta’s party and abuse her hospitality, but there is absolutely no way he is letting these men get away with behaviour like this. As the leader sinks another punch and Sherlock groans again, John moves forward.  
‘Problem, gentlemen?’ he asks coolly, his icy tone effectively masking his inner rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The leader turns narrowed eyes on him.  
‘Bog off, stumpy, there’s a good chap. This doesn’t concern you.’  
John takes another step forward, meeting Sherlock’s pained eyes briefly. He nods once to him, as if to reassure him everything’s okay, and then turns his attention back on the other man.  
‘Sorry, but it does. Now, I suggest you step away from him before you embarrass yourselves even more. You’re grown men for God’s sake.’  
‘John, it’s...’ Sherlock attempts to defuse the situation. He can see the heat rising in John’s eyes, even if his tormentors can’t. Four against one. Not good odds for Cameron and his gang.   
Cameron takes an exaggerated step backwards in surprise.  
‘Wait a minute Sherry! You actually know this short-arse?’  
John takes a threatening step forwards to Cameron’s step back, bringing him within a foot of the group of men.   
‘Yes he does. Captain John Watson. I’m Sherlock’s boyfriend.’  
This time Cameron’s surprise is not simulated. His mouth drops open in astonishment, before he regains himself. ‘His... boyfriend?’  
‘That’s right. Now... get the fuck away from him. All of you. This is disgraceful. It’s Augusta’s party and you’re picking on her son like you’re eleven years old again. If I wasn’t restraining myself due to my respect of Augusta you’d all be on the floor right now. I doubt you could fight your way out of a paper bag.’  
Cameron sneers at him and gestures to one of his friends. ‘Francis, show this John Watson that we don’t take kindly to interference in our business.’  
John clenches his fists again. ‘It’s Captain John Watson, thank you. And please, I will warn you not to try anything. Just let him go, it’s that simple.’  
Francis, however, steps forward, smirking. He looks to John as though he is built along the Crabbe and Goyle mould, bristling with sheer stupidity.   
He takes a swing which John easily ducks, rising again and smiling coldly at Francis. ‘Care to try that again?’  
Francis, no longer smirking, takes another couple of swings, all of which John avoids merely by ducking his head.  
‘Pathetic,’ John scoffs, before suddenly letting fly with a right-hook which almost lifts Francis out of his dress shoes. As it is the bigger man stumbles back against Cameron, his eyes rolling back into his head. Cameron doesn’t bother to try and support him and Francis slumps to the paved patio. ‘Come on Sherlock. Let’s get out of here.’  
Sherlock, trying desperately to regain any semblance of his previous icy demeanour, moves to pass Cameron. But Cameron, with all the innate arrogance of some of the well-bred, isn’t letting it go that easily.  
‘Don’t you walk away from me, Sherlock! Just because your faggot boyfriend has come to save you doesn’t mean we’re finished! You made Melissa split up with me, you tosser!’  
Sherlock whirls around. ‘Please don’t be an idiot all your life Cameron. I merely pointed out to Melissa that she could do a lot better than a guy who treats her like an accessory and plays away from home at least every couple of days with the local prostitutes. She happened to agree with me once all the appropriate evidence was placed at her disposal.’  
Cameron’s friends all look a little surprised at this declaration, apart perhaps from Francis who is still rubbing his jaw on the ground.   
‘Prostitutes, mate?’ says Tom, his accent like cut-glass. ‘Why? That’s really quite degrading you know.’  
‘You freak,’ Cameron hisses venemously, swinging a fist straight at Sherlock. Before the detective can react, John has caught the fist in mid-air, muscles cording in his arm as he stops the force of Cameron’s charge.  
‘Don’t you dare,’ John snarls, his eyes blazing. ‘Sherlock is worth a thousand of you. More, in fact. All your posh education doesn’t seem to have done you much good, as far as I can see you’re just a group of little boys with the mentality to match.’ He pushes Sherlock subtly behind his back and stands so that he is face to face with Cameron. ‘Beatrice said to me you reminded her of a toad, only not quite as cute. I’m inclined to agree with her.’  
Cameron takes a step backwards, his eyes sparking with hatred and embarrassment. ‘What, not your type, Captain? I’m not surprised, you obviously prefer the twisted, psycho, freakish variety of men. You can’t tell me you actually enjoy shagging him...’  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. John, despite his promise to himself not to brawl at Augusta’s party, has heard Sherlock insulted one too many times. He punches Cameron squarely in the nose, which effectively floors the other man.  
Shaking his hand slightly John turns away from the men and wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist, leading him away from them. They go through the french doors and make their way through to the study. Once in the isolated room Sherlock paces away from John and stands at the window, his hands in his pockets.  
John undoes his bowtie and a couple of the top buttons on his shirt, looking anxiously at Sherlock.  
‘I don’t need you to come and save me, John,’ Sherlock says eventually. ‘I’m not some damsel in distress. I used to box and I’m more than capable of defending myself.’  
John clears his throat. ‘I know. But to be fair, there were four of them and only one of you. That’s unreasonable odds. Nobody could have fought their way out of there. And I know you prefer to rely on your wits. In fact, that’s what usually gets you into trouble in the first place.’  
Sherlock turns on him, his eyes blazing. ‘I wasn’t doing anything apart from having a cigarette...’ he starts, before realising exactly what he is saying. John rolls his eyes.  
‘It’s okay, I’m not going to start having a go at you about smoking. Not now, of all times. I get why you were stressed. Your family are... tricky, sometimes.’  
Sherlock smiles tightly. ‘You noticed?’  
‘I did. Although Charlotte’s lovely. We need to catch up with her later.’  
‘Ah, Charlotte. Yes. Possibly the best of a bad bunch. Apart from Beatrice. Very promising, I think. You know she’s planning on studying law at University?’  
John takes a step towards Sherlock. He notices how Sherlock is doubled up slightly still, and one hand is resting on his stomach.  
‘Let me see.’  
Sherlock feigns ignorance. ‘What?’  
‘Your stomach, let me see.’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘John, I hardly feel that here is the best place for...’  
‘Your injuries, you absolute idiot. Let me see.’  
Sherlock eyes John and then realises that there is absolutely no point in resisting. Sighing he untucks his snowy shirt from his trousers and lifts it up. John approaches and looks closely. Obviously he is expecting the bruises to form later but he experimentally presses a finger to a couple of points on Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock hisses slightly.  
‘I should have knocked them all out cold,’ John mutters, anger lacing his tone.  
‘No, you were the perfect gentleman. Ironic, isn’t it, considering the fact that they were brought up as supposed gentlemen and you weren’t?’  
‘I love you,’ John says suddenly, looking up at Sherlock. The detective meets his gaze and his grey eyes burn.  
‘I... I love you too.’  
John takes a step backwards, warily. ‘Really? You can’t say that unless you mean it.’  
For the first time in their relationship Sherlock sees total vulnerability in John. He has tensed and his eyes have trouble holding Sherlock’s gaze. On Sherlock’s part, the declaration is as much a surprise to him as it is to John. He hadn’t meant to say it. But just at that moment, with John gazing up at him, after everything they have been through... it is more than obvious. Intolerable, really, that his mind missed it. How could he not be in love with John? The man is... the man is life to him.  
‘I mean it. You’re everything to me, John. I love you.’  
John pauses and to his dismay Sherlock sees tears gathering in the deep blue depths of John’s eyes.   
‘Did I say it wrong?’ he asks worriedly.  
John reaches out, grasps his tie and yanks the detective towards him. ‘No, you... you really are an idiot, you know that? You said everything exactly right.’  
Sherlock feels a surge of lust as John grabs his tie and he wraps his arms around John’s waist, joining them in a kiss. John sighs and opens his mouth (he has given up fighting Sherlock for dominance) and Sherlock slides his tongue into John to taste and to claim. Champagne, mints and something that is undefinably the doctor greets him. He walks them backwards until John hits the wall and presses his advantage, searching and plundering John’s mouth.  
John moans slightly and allows Sherlock’s leg to press in between his thighs. His cock strains against the silky material of his trousers and he knows Sherlock feels it by the detective’s strangled groan of lust.   
As for him, he can feel Sherlock’s arousal pressing against his hip. Knowing that this isn’t the time, or the place, he nevertheless finally feels the confidence to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers and zipper. The detective sucks in a shocked breath against his mouth and this makes John feel awful.  
When he thinks back it has always been Sherlock pleasuring him. He has always been reluctant to take care of Sherlock’s needs. Possibly because he still wasn’t ready to admit his sexuality, even to himself. But now...  
He slips his hand into Sherlock’s trousers, past the silky material of the boxers, and grasps Sherlock’s cock. The younger man gasps aloud, tears his mouth away from John’s and throws his head back against the wall, the dark curls splaying for a moment on the plush wallpaper.  
‘John... Jesus... is this really the time...’  
‘Shut up,’ John growls against his throat, biting the pale flesh lightly as his hand works inside Sherlock’s trousers. ‘You’re so beautiful, Sherlock.’  
‘John...’ Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and John traces his free hand up into Sherlock’s curls, tugging them roughly.   
‘The most brilliant, infuriating, charismatic, sexy man I’ve ever met...’ John carries on, sliding his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, making the other man cry out in pleasure. Suddenly it occurs to John that, as far as he knows, Sherlock hasn’t been pleasured like this by anyone apart from himself. He stills his movements. Sherlock’s eyes fly open, already slightly panicked.  
‘John?’  
‘Sherlock... have you ever... I mean, have you...’  
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ‘No. Nobody apart from you. Is that a problem?’ Although he tries to cover this last sentence with his usual bravado, the vulnerability shows through. John smiles, feeling immensely privileged and honoured.  
‘No. No, of course it isn’t, Sherlock. I’m honestly honoured. I just want to make it good for you.’  
‘No worries there,’ Sherlock sighs as John starts up his ministrations again. His good hand clutches John’s shoulder as his breathing escalates. ‘John... oh my God... yes...’  
Suddenly wary there might be people outside the study door, John clasps a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Not so loud!’ he hisses, almost laughing.   
He can’t stop himself getting hard, as much as he tries. Feeling Sherlock’s cock underneath his hand, already slippery with pre-come, is turning him on massively. Added to that the detective has now splayed himself against the wall, moaning wantonly. John has only to glance at the dark curls in total disarray, the pale column of Sherlock’s throat, and then his own hand, thrust into Sherlock’s trousers, and he almost comes undone then and there.  
Feeling suddenly daring John moves his hand to Sherlock’s balls and cups them, while still stroking the detective’s length with one finger.   
‘Oh, fuck! Oh JOHN!’ Sherlock screams aloud, his orgasm overtaking him suddenly. John finds himself suddenly releasing in his own trousers. The cause? Sherlock swearing. He has never ever heard the detective swear.  
‘Shit,’ he mutters, gazing disconsolately at his trousers.  
‘John,’ he hears Sherlock murmur.   
‘Yes?’  
‘You realise we’ve broken pretty much every party etiquette rule there is? We’ve fought with the guests and now we’ve pretty much had sex in the study.’  
John looks at Sherlock. His dark hair rumpled and messy. Lips plump, lush and red. A bite mark forming on his neck. Tie skewed to the side. Shirt untucked. Trousers undone and splatters of come staining the dark material. Debauched. Utterly debauched.  
‘I couldn’t care less,’ John murmurs throatily, launching himself at Sherlock for another kiss.


	22. The Approach to Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Approach to Christmas

‘John? Are you in there? Have you found him yet?’  
John pulls away from Sherlock panting, his face deeply flushed with a combination of arousal and embarrassment. It suddenly dawns on him exactly where they are, the study of Sherlock’s mother’s house at her Christmas Party. The man in question stands leaning against the wall where John released him, looking like he is about to collapse.  
John coughs desperately. ‘Erm... yeah. Be out in a minute.’  
He thinks he’s done pretty well at sounding casual until he notices Sherlock’s amused quirked eyebrow and realises that there is a silence on the other side of the door, and what sounds like Charlotte desperately trying not to giggle.  
‘Right... okay. Don’t be too long will you.’  
‘Will do,’ John replies, frantically attempting to comb his hair back into some sort of order. He gazes at the detective, who isn’t making any attempt to put himself back together again.  
‘Sherlock, you might want to... fix yourself up,’ John murmurs, gesturing at the man’s undone trousers, ruffled shirt and waistcoat and hair which frankly screams I’ve just had an orgasm.  
‘I take it you think we ought to go back in there and mingle,’ Sherlock says with deep disgust on the last word. John nods.  
‘It’s rude if we stay in here all night. And besides, people will talk.’  
‘People do little else,’ Sherlock responds and they stare at each other, both remembering that moment in the pool when he’d said exactly the same thing. Almost at the same moment they burst out laughing.

XXXXXXXXXX

Five minutes later John and Sherlock exit the study, the latter straightening his tie and smoothing a hand through his ruffled curls. Charlotte is lounging outside against the wall and smirks as she sees them.  
‘Alright boys?’ she asks casually.  
‘Fine thank you, Charlotte,’ Sherlock responds, clearing his throat and gazing around at the room. ‘I didn’t miss anything did I?’  
Charlotte laughs. ‘Uncle Dorian threw up in the punch bowl. Your mother’s not pleased. She escorted him from the room herself, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Sherlock was right about you.”  
‘Well, I imagine that’s the last we’ll see of him tonight. Mummy will probably put him in one of the guest rooms to sleep it off.’ Sherlock glances at John. ‘Have you had enough of my family yet?’  
John smiles. ‘Not quite. I promised Charlotte a dance for a start.’  
Sherlock grimaces. ‘Fine. I shall find a seat and amuse myself I suppose.’ John, recognising the petulant tone, smiles.   
‘Oh, I’ll be wanting a dance with you as well.’  
‘I don’t dance,’ Sherlock states.  
‘Oh go on, Sherlock. I remember when we waltzed one year, you’re amazing!’ Charlotte says, winding an arm affectionately around the man’s shoulders, making him stiffen uncomfortably. John stares at the detective.  
‘You waltz?’  
‘Mummy made me take classes until I got old enough to say “no”.’  
‘Well, that’s final then. I’m definitely having a dance later.’

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our annual Christmas Waltz!’ Augusta Holmes’s voice rings out magnificently around the echoing room which is slightly emptier than it had been at the beginning as some of Sherlock’s more elderly relatives have retired to spare rooms for the night.   
John, who is laughing with Charlotte near the buffet table, scans the room for Sherlock. He finally sees him slumped in a chair near the door, fingers flying over his mobile phone. Almost as if he can sense the doctor’s eyes on him, Sherlock looks up and their gazes meet. John jerks his head, gesturing the detective to come over.  
All around them people are finding their partners. Charlotte murmurs something to John about going to find her boyfriend and John, left alone, waits while Sherlock wends his way across the room towards him.  
‘Do you really want to do this, John?’ he asks quietly, gazing down at the doctor solemnly. ‘In our family, the Christmas Waltz is a big deal.’  
John meets his gaze steadily. ‘Good. Because my feelings for you are a big deal.’ Analysing the slightly nervous look on Sherlock’s face, John pauses for a second. ‘Have you ever actually danced at this party before?’  
‘No. Don’t be ridiculous John. Who would I dance with? Mummy? Mycroft?’ He gives a shudder and John smiles.  
‘Come on then. Show me what you can do.’  
As they take their places on the floor, Sherlock grins down at him, amusement obliterating his previously anxious expression. ‘You do realise that as you don’t know how to waltz, I’m going to have to take the traditional male role. Which means that you will be the girl.’  
John frowns and then smiles slightly. ‘I don’t mind. I’ve always wanted to get in touch with my feminine side.’  
Just before the music starts up, John glances to the side and sees Augusta standing with her hand resting lightly on her chest, looking straight at them. As she sees John look across she smiles gently at him and nods her head ever so slightly. It is an unspoken approval and John feels a warmth settle in his chest and flush into his cheeks.  
‘What’s wrong?’ Sherlock asks, his quick eyes immediately noting the slight change in John’s behaviour. He follows John’s eyes over to his mother and raises his eyebrows at her.  
‘Ah, of course. Mummy always gets so sentimental about these things.’  
The music starts and Sherlock tightens his hold on John, whirling him away. And Charlotte wasn’t lying. The man can dance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock leave the Holmes house at half past ten the next morning, having stayed overnight in Sherlock’s old room.  
The taxi pulls up in front of 221b Baker Street and as Sherlock is fitting his key in the lock a horrifying thought suddenly strikes John. It comes so suddenly it almost makes him stagger as if hit by a sudden blow. It will be Christmas in a few days. And he hasn’t even started shopping for presents. Usually this wouldn’t make him that anxious, after all he spent one year traipsing around the shops on Christmas Eve. But this year there is something different. He needs to get a present for Sherlock.  
A present for Sherlock. How? What on earth could he possibly get the Consulting Detective that the man would ever need or want?  
The door is open and John becomes aware that Sherlock is gazing at him quizzically.  
‘Are you going to stand out on the pavement all day, John?’ he asks sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.  
‘I... I need to go into town, actually,’ John stammers, his mind still whirling with panic. ‘There’s something I have to do.’  
And without another word he spins on his heel and leaps back into the taxi, which is thankfully still pulled in at the kerb.   
‘Oxford Street, please,’ he mutters and the car draws away. As he glances out of the window he can see Sherlock, still standing in the open doorway, gazing at him with confusion and bewilderment. Under any usual circumstances he would have been thrilled to have done something to actually puzzle the detective, but now all he can think of is that there’s a slight expression of hurt on the man’s face. Perhaps he left too abruptly.  
Quickly he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text.  
Don’t worry. Just forgotten something important. I’ll see you later. Try not to blow up the flat. JW  
He sinks back into the seat as the cab winds its way through the morning traffic of London at Christmas and desperately tries to think what he can get Sherlock as a present. Perhaps some violin sheet music? No, no good. The man prefers to compose himself and any pieces he does like to play he has already committed to memory. Science or chemistry books? He already has an entire library, John is doubtful he’ll be able to find anything Sherlock hasn’t already got.  
The car drops him off in Oxford Street. John pays, gets out and then stands still on the pavement, his eyes flicking from shop to shop. Almost hesitantly he begins to walk slowly, gaze still flicking, as if he is hoping for sudden inspiration to strike. He spots a large Debenhams up ahead. Perhaps some new clothes? A new scarf?   
He wanders in through the front doors and spends about half an hour browsing through the men’s sale racks. Although his bank balance is looking fairly healthy at the moment he has no wish to go mad with his money. He is getting desperate when he spots a scarf, hidden between two dark jackets.  
He plucks it out and holds it at arm’s length, running his fingers over the material. It feels like an expensive wool, perhaps even cashmere. But it is the colour which is the main draw. It is almost the exact shade of Sherlock’s eyes, a strange grey which somehow manages to be both cloudy and bright at the same time. It may be John’s vision playing tricks on him but he almost imagines there are subtle notes of blue in the material as well.  
Almost physically wincing, he reaches out for the tag to check the price. First he sees the initial cost, crossed out. Forty-five pounds. Hissing in a breath he lowers his eyes to the new one. Fifteen.   
Feeling his heart leap with relief he clutches it to his chest as though afraid someone might come up to him and snatch it. Abandoning the racks of clothing he makes his way to the till to pay and is soon back in the icy London air.  
As he wanders down the street once more, after several minutes his eye is caught by a Timpson shop, half hidden down an alley off the main street. Not quite understanding why he is doing so, he enters and casts his eyes about at the usual collection of Zippo lighters and plaques.   
‘Can I help mate?’ the man behind the counter asks.  
John pauses for a second. ‘Is it just keys, lighters and plaques you do here?’ he asks, not really knowing why he’s asking.  
‘Mainly. We got a few penknives knocking around though.’ John grins suddenly. He is fairly sure that Sherlock doesn’t have a penknife. He has the knife he uses to pin letters to the mantelpiece but that is it. And although Sherlock doesn’t need a penknife, surely it might be helpful to him on cases.  
‘Can I see some?’ he asks, and within a minute a selection is laid out on top of the counter. He bends over, examining them closely. One in particular catches his eye. A deep blue with a little black skull in one corner.  
John points at it. ‘How much is that one?’  
‘Twenty-one quid, mate. We’ve got it on an offer at the moment actually. If you buy it you get an inscription for free.’  
John smiles.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later he is in a taxi on his way back to Baker Street, bags collected around his feet. In addition to the scarf and the penknife he’s picked up a Rubik’s cube for Sherlock as well, just as a joke. But he has to admit that part of him is intrigued to see how quickly the detective can solve it. He also has another idea of what to give Sherlock but it requires a fair bit of thinking and probably the involvement of Mycroft. John resolves to tell the detective that the few bits he’s picked up today are part one of his present and he’ll be getting the second part at a later date.  
He has also managed to find presents for everybody else. Perfume for Harry, chocolates for Sarah and Augusta. A new umbrella for Mycroft (as a joke, but honestly, what on earth do you get Mycroft Holmes for Christmas?) Vouchers for Molly and Justin, New Look and JJB Sports respectively. The brand new Jamie Oliver cookery book for Mrs Hudson and a bottle of red wine for Lestrade.  
It has all severely depleted his account but just as long as he’s careful over the next month it should be all right. He lets himself into the building and mounts the stairs.  
‘Sherlock?’ he calls out. It quickly becomes evident that he is not in the apartment, so John takes the opportunity to hide the bags deep in the recesses of his wardrobe... not that he expects Sherlock to be fooled for long by such an obvious hiding place.  
Settled back in the living room with a cup of tea John sends another text to Sherlock.  
Back. Where are you? JW

XXXXXXXXXXX

Three hours later and there hasn’t been a reply. John attempts to work on his blog but finds that there isn’t much to say now that there is a temporary ban on cases. He doesn’t particularly want to brandish details of his fledgling relationship with Sherlock all over the internet.  
Sighing he picks up his phone just in case Sherlock has replied and he has somehow missed it. Nothing. Slightly annoyed, and a little worried, he sends another text.  
Where are you? JW  
He occupies himself during the rest of the afternoon by cleaning the flat thoroughly. It has gone eight o’clock when he finishes. Slightly desperately now he snatches up his phone again and, after seeing no little message icon in the corner of the screen, he scrolls through his contacts and presses Sherlock’s number.  
The phone rings and rings before clicking off to Sherlock’s terse answerphone message.   
‘This is Sherlock. Leave a message.’  
The first stirrings of panic now starting to take hold, John fires off another text.  
Sherlock. Tell me you’re okay. JW  
He knows it may be irrational to worry about the detective being absent for only an afternoon and part of the evening, after all the man has disappeared for days on end before with absolutely no warning. But ever since Sherlock’s kidnap and torture John cannot help the worry which takes root in his gut whenever he doesn’t hear back from the detective or know where he is.  
Another hour passes. John has rung Lestrade in desperation wondering if Sherlock for some reason has gone to see him. It’s a negative. He hangs up on the Inspector rather abruptly after getting a promise from him to call if he sees or talks to Sherlock.  
At about ten past nine he hears keys in the lock and the familiar bounding footsteps. In two seconds his initial reaction of Thank God he’s alright has passed and the anger simmers to the surface. He pushes it down.  
Coolly he looks up as Sherlock appears in the doorway.  
‘John,’ Sherlock greets him with a nod before wandering across and flopping down onto the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin. John takes a few deep breaths.  
‘Sherlock. Did you get my texts?’ he asks calmly.  
The detective frowns briefly and then his expression clears. ‘Ah yes, I did. Sorry I didn’t reply, I was busy.’  
John nods, his brows knitting together. ‘Busy. I see.’ Clearly Sherlock notices something odd about his tone and he glances up.  
‘You’re upset with me about something,’ he says slowly, his sharp eyes flitting over John’s face, cataloguing every small movement. ‘What’s wrong?’  
John gets to his feet, Sherlock tracking him as he does so. John’s fingers flex a few times as he tries to breathe calmly. ‘What’s wrong?’ he repeats hoarsely. The anger seizes control of his vocal chords suddenly. ‘Sherlock! Where the bloody hell have you been?’  
Sherlock gets up from the sofa languidly, and stretches. John tries not to get distracted by the sight of the rippling material of Sherlock’s shirt across his torso. The detective flaps a hand dismissively. ‘I had a few things to do. I thought since you’d gone awol I might as well occupy myself with doing something as well.’  
‘I did not go awol – I texted you, I told you what I was doing! I come back, find the flat empty, no contact from you for hours! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?’  
Sherlock frowns. ‘What are you so upset about? I don’t understand.’  
John clenches his hand in his hair to stop himself from punching the wall. ‘Sherlock, you can’t just disappear off like that! And if you do, if I text you asking if you’re alright you have to reply! It’s just common courtesy!’  
‘You’re overreacting John,’ Sherlock says with the first hint of irritation creeping into his tone. ‘It’s not even ten o’clock yet and you’re acting like I’ve been missing for months. I don’t need a babysitter!’  
John strides towards him and stops short just a few centimetres away, his face slightly flushed with anger. ‘No, but you need to stop thinking about somebody other than yourself sometimes! Did it even occur to you that I might be worried about you? After what happened to you...’  
Sherlock’s eyes flash with temper. ‘Oh, so we’re back to that are we? When are you going to stop treating me like some victim who needs to be watched twenty-four-seven? If you want me to put the kidnap behind me you’re going to have to stop freaking out everytime I’m away from you.’ He eyes John coldly. ‘Or are you really that dependent on me?’  
John lets out a howl of frustration and pushes Sherlock back against the wall, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. At this moment he wants nothing more than to shake some sense into the younger man. Instead he crushes his mouth to Sherlock’s lips, plunging one hand deep into Sherlock’s hair and tugging roughly, using his other to trap Sherlock against the wall.  
The detective freezes for a second and then begins to kiss back hesitantly. John grabs Sherlock by his lapels and whirls him around, throwing him back down on the sofa. Before the detective can catch his breath, John is on top of him, biting at his throat and running a hand up and down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s breath hitches.  
‘John...’ he moans desperately.  
‘Shut up, just shut up,’ John growls, roughly palming the growing bulge in the other man’s crotch. Sherlock whines helplessly and thrusts up against him.  
John latches onto Sherlock’s shirt and pulls it apart, buttons popping off violently and rolling onto the carpet and down the sides of the sofa cushions. John twists at one of Sherlock’s nipples and the detective gasps, his spine arching.   
The anger still coursing through him, mixed with a large dosage of lust, John starts fiddling with Sherlock’s trouser fastenings and with a noise halfway between a growl and a roar he rips them down, taking the detective’s boxers down at the same time.  
Sherlock’s cock bounces up against his stomach, flushed red and achingly hard. John wastes no time in wrapping his hand around it and pumps roughly. Sherlock thrashes his head from side to side on the sofa, constant moans spilling from his lips.  
‘John... John...’  
John’s other hand winds up to the detective’s hipbones and he grasps tightly at the pale flesh, hard enough to leave bruises.   
‘Don’t you ever worry me like that again, Sherlock,’ he mutters, lowering his head again to bite once more at Sherlock’s throat, so tantalisingly bare and open. Sherlock twists beneath him.  
‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry, John, please... please...’  
Sherlock’s breathing is becoming ragged, his chest rising rapidly up and down as he fights to draw in air. John rakes his free hand down the detective’s torso and then back up to tug at Sherlock’s left nipple.   
He accompanies this with a last, forceful twist of his hand on Sherlock’s cock and the younger man screams, his whole body arching off the sofa, almost bucking John off. Warm semen splatters over John’s clenched fist and Sherlock’s stomach.  
Panting, John shifts backwards off the sofa and then stumbles over to his chair, sinking into it feeling almost as though his legs have turned to jelly. Shaking slightly he wipes a hand across his forehead, allowing the residual anger, worry and lust to fade away. After a couple of minutes he feels like he’s regained control again and looks over to Sherlock.  
The detective is still lying spread-eagled on his back on the sofa, boxers and trousers pushed down to his knees, shirt ripped and hanging either side of his torso. His head is tipped back on the arm of the sofa, his curls ruffled, his gaze blankly staring at the ceiling.  
‘Sherlock? You okay?’ John feels drained, almost like even talking is an effort. Sherlock tilts his head to the side and glances at John before returning his gaze to the ceiling.  
‘Fine, John.’  
John frowns. ‘Are you sure?’  
Sherlock pulls himself up into the sitting position, wincing slightly as he does so. Almost absently he glances down at his stomach where the results of his orgasm are now drying. He reaches over to the table, plucks a tissue out of the box and wipes himself down before hauling up his boxers and trousers and fastening them again. There isn’t much he can do about the buttons on his shirt, most of them are probably halfway across the living room, so he just leaves it hanging open.  
‘I suppose that’s what people mean when they reference “angry sex”,’ he murmurs slightly wonderingly. ‘Interesting. Usually used as a way for couples to make up after a fight if the information on the internet is to be believed.’  
John pauses and rakes a hand through his hair. Jesus, how could he have forgotten? Sherlock is still so new to all this, everything to do with relationships and sex. And he’d just leapt in there as though Sherlock has years of sexual experience.  
‘God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I forgot, this is all new to you...’  
‘It’s quite alright, John.’ He raises an eyebrow wryly. ‘It’s not as though I didn’t enjoy it.’ But his words have no effect on John. Now he is concentrating he can see the thin red lines tracing their way down Sherlock’s pale chest and sides, made by his nails. He can see the reddened skin and teethmarks on Sherlock’s neck. Guilt floods him, numbing his senses. He feels his own arousal deflating quickly. Worst of all there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He never meant it to go that far, he’d just been so angry and worried and Sherlock had just stood there coolly, like nothing was wrong and they’d both said things...  
Suddenly he is aware that tears are sliding down his cheeks and he brushes them away. Sherlock moves swiftly from the sofa and kneels before him, his eyes concerned and confused.  
‘John? What’s wrong?’   
‘I never meant that to happen, Sherlock,’ John mutters. ‘I shouldn’t have... Oh God. Look at this.’ He reaches out a hand and gently touches the skin on Sherlock’s neck. The detective tilts his head with a sigh, exposing his throat further.  
‘I’m not a china doll, John. And despite what you seem to think, if I hadn’t enjoyed it I would have let you know. Did I refuse? Did you get any indication that I didn’t want it?’  
John pauses, the tears drying on his cheeks. ‘No, but...’  
‘Tell me, was I right in my deduction that angry sex is generally used as a method of resolving an argument between a couple?’  
John sighs, knowing that he won’t get any rest to be alone with his guilt until he has answered the detective’s questions. ‘Yes you were right. It’s seen as a way for both parties to release their anger.’  
‘And has it worked? Have you released your anger, John?’  
‘Yes. But we still need to talk about it, Sherlock. You may have wanted it but that’s no excuse for me just throwing myself at you like that when you’re still so new to everything.’  
‘Everybody’s got to learn sometime, John. And you know me – I’m always up for new knowledge unless it’s something as pointless and dull as...’  
‘The solar system?’ John asks, a half-smile pulling at his lips.  
Sherlock frowns. ‘Don’t be so superior, John, it doesn’t suit you.’  
John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s good hand, rubbing the slender fingers between his own. ‘I just... I was really worried about you, Sherlock. I know you like to disappear sometimes by yourself and that’s fine. But if I text or ring you to ask if you’re okay you have to reply. Otherwise I’m going to assume the worst, I can’t help it.’  
Sherlock is silent for a long minute and John can see the turmoil going on in his mind. On the one hand he knows that Sherlock is used to just disappearing at any minute of the day or night and not being obliged to contact anybody. Now, however, he is in a relationship and he has to accept that the rules have been changed slightly.  
‘I promise, John,’ he says eventually, very softly. ‘I... I’m very sorry I made you worry, it was never my intention.’ Hesitantly he raises his gaze from the carpet to look into John’s eyes.  
‘That’s all I wanted,’ John says simply, drawing the other man in for a tender kiss. They break apart and John smooths his hand through the unruly curls. ‘I’ve already said I don’t want to change you – I fell in love with who you are. But just a simple text or call to let me know you’re okay means a lot.’  
Sherlock gets to his feet and John gets up too, scratching at his head briefly. ‘Tea?’  
‘Love one,’ Sherlock responds, heading back to the sofa and pulling John’s laptop towards him. John pauses, almost says something, and then rolls his eyes, smiling slightly. He supposes he will have to come to terms with the fact that his laptop is now a shared item, and he finds that it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.  
As he boils the kettle Sherlock’s mobile starts to ring. John glances towards the table in the sitting room where it’s buzzing angrily. Sherlock remains oblivious.  
‘Sherlock? Your phone’s ringing.’  
No response. Sherlock is clearly engrossed in whatever he is doing.   
‘Fine. I’ll get it then, shall I?’ he asks without any real annoyance in his voice. Flipping two teabags swiftly into the mugs he picks up the mobile from the table and checks the ID. ‘It’s the hospital. D’you want me to get it?’  
At this Sherlock finally glances up. ‘The hospital? Yes, fine, go ahead.’  
John answers the call. ‘Sherlock Holmes’s phone. John Watson speaking.’ He listens for a moment. ‘No, I’m afraid he’s...’ he glances towards his boyfriend again, ‘... he’s busy right this minute, can I take a message?’  
After a few minutes he speaks again, his eyes shining. ‘Great, yes that’ll be fine. Right. See you tomorrow.’  
Sherlock looks up as John puts the phone back down on the table. ‘Anything interesting?’ he asks.  
‘The hospital have a free appointment tomorrow at two thirty. They want to take the splint off your fingers.’  
Moving fast, Sherlock leaps up from the sofa and pulls John into a crushing embrace. ‘Excellent, John! I’ll finally be able to play my violin again!’ John can’t help but beam as he winds his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist, hugging him back tightly, although part of him is already imagining the concertos starting up at three in the morning again.  
‘Remember what you promised,’ John says abruptly, pulling away and staring up at the detective. Sherlock blinks and then frowns slightly.  
‘What I promised?’ he asks.  
‘Yes. You promised the first thing you’d play would be something dedicated to me. Mozart or Beethoven, remember?’  
Sherlock continues staring at John for a moment and then bursts out laughing.


	23. Decorating

Chapter Twenty-Three

Decorating

John has to suppress a smile as he watches Sherlock bound around the apartment like some sort of gangly, long-limbed over-excited puppy. He knows what today means for the detective. The lash marks on his back have faded, leaving only a few long, slender scars. The wound on his head has also long since healed over, leaving only the faintest mark which John can only see if he really looks for it.  
But Sherlock’s hand has been a constant reminder to him of the torment he suffered at the hands of the psychotic consulting criminal, James Moriarty. Day after day he has had to see the splinted fingers and John knows that he must be replaying how it happened in his head constantly. John knows he certainly is, the memory of Moriarty’s little demonstrations will stay with him always.   
Today, at last, the splint will be taken off. The last physical evidence of his ordeal will have disappeared, leaving only a few scars in its wake. John knows the physical element isn’t the dangerous part. Sherlock will have to live with his memories forever. Particularly what would have been Moriarty’s last revenge if John hadn’t got there in time. Once again John thanks God that he had reached him when he did. If he’d gotten there even a few minutes later... he cannot even think about it.  
At this moment though, with the bright December sunshine streaming in through the living room windows, such dark thoughts have no place and John banishes them to the back of his mind. He checks his watch. Nearly half past one. They will have to start for the hospital soon. Just as he thinks this, Sherlock whirls back into the room.  
‘What’s the time?’  
‘Time you got a watch,’ John retorts good-humouredly and then replies almost in the same breath, ‘twenty-five past one.’  
‘You could just take it off for me now,’ Sherlock says, as though this idea has only just occurred to him. John rolls his eyes. His boyfriend has been saying that now for the past two hours. ‘Now that the hospital think it’s alright, we don’t have to bother going.’  
‘Sherlock, you need to have it removed at the hospital. I’m not arguing with you about this. Just calm down and... read a book or something.’  
Sherlock stares at him incredulously. ‘Read a book? John when have you ever known me to sit down and read a book?’  
John starts ticking them off on his fingers. ‘Well, there was that case with the Chinese gang, you know, the code hidden in...’  
‘Didn’t read them, doesn’t count,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘And anyway, the question was rhetorical.’  
‘Right, okay. Well, I’m going to sit here and read my book, and you can continue dashing around the apartment like a madman if you want. It won’t make us leave any quicker though.’ John catches a glimpse of Sherlock’s scowl before he lowers his eyes back to the pages in his hands and grins.  
After a few minutes have passed he is aware that Sherlock is standing right by the side of his chair, peering over at his book. Sighing he flips it shut and cranes his neck to look at his boyfriend.  
‘What is it now?’ he asks exasperatedly, checking his watch again. ‘It’s only twenty-to-two, we don’t have to leave for another ten minutes at least!’  
Sherlock shifts slightly and then moves around to sit in his chair opposite John’s. ‘I actually want to talk to you about something I want to do, but I thought it might be best if I got your opinion on it first.’ John blinks in surprise. Sherlock must have been listening to what he’s been ranting on about relationships after all. He finds that he is absurdly pleased and touched.  
‘Go on,’ he says, his voice slightly choked. Get a grip, Watson. This is ridiculous, you’re acting like a soppy teenager.  
‘Well, you know I need stimulation all the time, something to keep my brain active?’ John nods warily, slightly unsure about where this is going. Sherlock takes a breath and then says it in a rush. ‘I want to go back to solving cases. I’m going stir crazy, John. I’ve done almost every experiment I can think of, and all the others involve large amounts of acid which I know you’ve prohibited since the last time and...’  
John holds up a hand to stop Sherlock there, shaking his head slightly in amusement. ‘Sherlock. It’s okay. You want to start doing cases again, that’s fine with me.’  
‘It is?’ Sherlock looks confused and a little taken aback. ‘I thought...’  
‘The only reason I said to Lestrade that you wouldn’t be taking cases for awhile is that I guessed you’d want a bit of time to recover from what happened. If you feel you’re up for returning to the Yard, I’m with you all the way.’  
‘Really?’  
‘Of course. Anderson’s an absolute twat but you shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of keeping you away from doing what you do best. You’re Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. A pathetic little git like him shouldn’t stop you from solving cases. And I have to admit, it’ll be fun to go racing about London again. I feel like I’m getting a bit flabby.’ Smiling he pats at his belly. Sherlock’s eyes gleam.  
‘Oh, you’re far from flabby, Doctor.’  
John takes in a deep breath. ‘You can’t start talking to me like that in that tone of voice, Sherlock.’  
‘And why not?’ Sherlock purrs.  
‘Because I don’t want to go to the hospital with an erection, that’s why. You know what that voice does to me. Arrogant sod,’ he adds fondly.  
Sherlock pouts slightly and flops back in his chair petulantly. ‘I thought it would be an interesting way to pass the time.’  
John laughs and shakes his head. ‘Believe me, if you’d carried on talking like that, we would not have emerged from the bedroom for hours.’  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that a promise, Doctor?’  
‘It is... but at a later date. Right now we need to concentrate on getting your hand sorted and deciding what we’re going to do about Christmas.’  
Sherlock jumps up out of his chair. ‘And that is a discussion definitely better left for another time. Come on, John. I’m sure the hospital won’t mind us being a bit early.’  
John flings his book to the table, unable to resist Sherlock’s constant badgering any longer.  
‘Fine. But when we get back I want at least twenty minutes uninterrupted with my book.’  
‘Would you care for a violin accompaniment?’ Sherlock asks, winding his scarf around his neck. John pauses and then smiles.  
‘Just so long as it isn’t you just yanking at the strings like you do when you’re frustrated. Beethoven or Mozart, remember.’  
‘Yes John,’ Sherlock replies irritably. ‘That has been noted. Now come on.’

XXXXXXXXXX

In the back of the cab on the way back from the hospital Sherlock cannot help flexing his previously broken and splinted fingers wonderingly. They feel slightly disconnected from the rest of his body and they look a little wasted and pale, but the doctors, and more importantly, John, have assured him that will all change.  
‘How does it feel?’ John asks softly from his position beside him.  
Sherlock waits a little before replying. ‘Indescribable,’ he responds eventually.  
Back in the living room Sherlock heads straight for his violin and John slumps into his chair, book on standby. He smiles as he watches the detective cradle his instrument delicately, flexing his previously broken fingers once more, this time testing the strings. Eventually he grasps his bow and takes up his habitual place by the window.  
John picks up his book but although he flicks to his page, he is subtly glancing up at Sherlock through his lashes.   
‘What’ll it be?’ Sherlock asks, placing his bow to the strings. ‘You have a choice of Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major or Mozart’s fifth.’ John tries to draw on all the knowledge of classical music he has, which if he’s honest, isn’t a lot. The only reason he’d said Beethoven and Mozart was because he’d remembered his dad playing both a lot when he was little and he’d quite liked it. ‘You have no idea, do you?’ Sherlock asks, a fond smile spreading across his face.  
John shrugs, caught out. ‘None.’  
‘Then I shall pick for you. The Beethoven was initially not well received but is now one of the most played and recorded violin concertos. However the first movement is twenty-five minutes long compared to the first movement of Mozart’s fifth, which is significantly shorter. Added to which the Mozart should be played in a more majestic manner than what is usual, and I have to admit I am always a fan of the theatrical. Therefore, the Mozart.’ After regaling John with this information he proceeds to place his bow to the strings.  
What follows is surely one of the most beautiful experiences of John’s life. After about a minute his book drops from his hands, completely forgotten. His eyes are full of Sherlock, who sways from side to side with the lilting cadences of the piece. For anybody who claims Sherlock cannot feel... John would invite them to simply watch him play. To see that body almost literally thrum with emotion, to see him coax soaring, eye-watering notes from a simple piece of wood.  
After about ten minutes Sherlock stops, finishing with a flourish. He takes a moment to come back to himself and then lays his violin reverently on the sofa cushions.   
‘John? What did you think?’  
John stays silent for so long, Sherlock begins to panic. Eventually he lifts his head and gazes at Sherlock.  
‘Why, the bloody hell, could you not play like that at three in the morning?’

XXXXXXXXXXX

A couple of hours later John flips shut his laptop and stretches. Sherlock is, for once, using his own computer, writing up old case notes.   
‘So, what are we going to do about Christmas?’ John asks, going into the kitchen to boil the kettle.  
‘Must we have this conversation now, John? It only promises to be tiresome.’  
‘Let me guess – you’re not a Christmas person?’  
Sherlock snorts, shutting his laptop and stretching back on the sofa, wrapping his dressing gown firmly around himself. ‘Exactly. With your usual innate perceptiveness you have hit the proverbial nail on the head.’  
‘There’s no need to be snarky,’ John responds mildly, hunting around for the milk amid the scattered experiments in the fridge. ‘We need to talk about this. Christmas is in what...?’  
‘Two days,’ Sherlock supplies promptly. ‘Today is the twenty-third.’  
‘Exactly. I’m guessing you don’t usually spend it with your family then?’  
Sherlock sniffs and flops back on the sofa, rubbing at his temples with both hands. ‘Hardly. Unless they literally force me to. Even then I only stay a few hours. I honestly cannot tell you how unutterably tedious the whole thing is.’  
‘Right. Well, I used to spend it with my parents but since they died it’s just been me and Harry. Not the most fun, I have to admit. Trying to stop an alcoholic drinking at Christmas is virtually impossible and it usually ended in a slanging match.’  
Sherlock frowns, looking a little puzzled. ‘I thought you liked Christmas, yet now you’re saying you hated it.’  
‘No, I loved Christmas when I was a kid. All the decorations, the tree, presents. The magic of it, I suppose.’ Sherlock scoffs and John rolls his eyes. ‘Alright, alright... but anyway. I suppose it’s always been an important time of year for me.’  
‘And what about this year? What are you going to do about Harry?’  
‘We’ve arranged to see each other tomorrow afternoon – Christmas Eve,’ he adds just in case. Sherlock frowns.  
‘I know when Christmas Eve is, John.’  
‘Right. Well, yeah, we’re exchanging presents tomorrow, but after that I don’t have any plans. I was wondering if you go to your parents but we’ve cleared that up now. I suppose they do something special, if the party was anything to go by?’  
‘Oh, yes, it’s very much a big family occasion.’ Sherlock says this in the same manner someone might say they’ve just discovered they have a tapeworm.  
‘So, definitely not your scene then.’  
‘A good deduction, John.’  
‘Well, I have an idea. How about we have Christmas together. Just us. I would have a few conditions though.’  
Sherlock hesitates and looks slightly anxious. ‘Conditions?’ He scans John’s face as if trying to read his thoughts.  
‘Yes. For one, I want us to go out together into town today and try and find some lights and decorations. And a tree. It doesn’t have to be a big one, just any Christmas tree. And I want you to help put it up and decorate it and the apartment with me.’  
Sherlock groans aloud and runs his hands through his curls agitatedly. ‘Really, John? You really want to decorate the apartment?’  
‘Yes,’ John replies firmly. ‘And I also want you to help cook Christmas dinner.’ He pauses and has to stifle a laugh at the aghast expression on Sherlock’s face. ‘I said help. I’ll be doing most of it. I wouldn’t trust you alone in the kitchen making a roast.’ He shudders at the thought. Sherlock looks vaguely affronted.  
‘Are they all of your “conditions”?’ he asks coolly.   
‘There is, one more,’ John says hesitantly. ‘Although it is not really a condition. Not at all. More of a wish. But we’ll come to that later.’  
Sherlock looks intrigued, John knows that any sort of mystery always interests him. He folds his pale fingers under his chin in his habitual pose and stares at John closely. John gazes back, his features as implacable as he can make them. Eventually the detective throws his hands up in the air, scowling.  
‘You are as indecipherable to me as you always are, John,’ he announces, his tone a mixture of annoyance and admiration. ‘I suppose, seeing as you suggest a Christmas without enforced company of any sort, especially from my family, I must adhere to your demands. Although I have to admit, the third does interest me.’  
‘I thought it might,’ John replies, a little smugly. His smile is soon wiped off his face, however, when Sherlock saunters towards him, a burning look in his eyes.  
‘Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing?’  
His boyfriend makes no reply, merely kneels in front of his chair and then gazes up at John through his lashes. The sight makes John’s heart skip a beat.  
‘I almost forgot, John.’ He is using that voice again. The voice which causes all the blood in John’s body to flood straight to his groin. He can feel it now, feel the first stirrings of excitement.  
‘What did you forget?’ John asks hoarsely.  
‘To demonstrate what other activities I can get up to, properly, now that my fingers are healed.’ Without saying anything more he reaches one hand up to cradle John’s cheek, while the other stretches to rub at the hardening bulge in John’s crotch.  
‘J-Jesus! One of these days you really are going to kill me, you know that?’  
Sherlock grins and removes his hand which is caressing John’s cheek. He stretches up to kiss John briefly yet passionately and then sinks back to his knees, both hands now working at John’s belt. He succeeds, fairly quickly, at getting it open and immediately pops the button and works the zipper down.  
‘Sherlock...’  
‘Shhh, John.’ Sherlock locks eyes with John and raises his eyebrows. Wordlessly John raises his hips off the chair, knowing exactly what Sherlock wants of him. Licking his lips a little, Sherlock tugs John’s jeans and boxers down to the floor. The doctor kicks them away, his blue eyes wide as he stares at Sherlock.  
Pale fingers curl around his length which is throbbing and aching for exactly that touch. John arches up in the chair and moans. Smiling, Sherlock runs his fingers up and down, feathery light, teasing and testing.  
‘I can do this with my fingers now...’ he crooks his previously broken little finger to stroke at John’s balls and the doctor throws his head back violently in his chair.  
‘God, oh God...’ he pants.  
‘... and this...’ he strokes at the base and John groans. ‘... but what I really want to do, I don’t need fingers for at all.’   
John’s eyes just have time to grow impossibly wide and then suddenly Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth is engulfing him.  
‘Shit!’ he gasps. ‘Sherlock!’ The detective flashes him a look through his eyelashes which can only be described as impish, before hollowing his cheeks and sucking deeply. With his last conscious thought, John wonders exactly how Sherlock is already so good at this. Apparently the detective’s great brain has been put to use studying subject matter other than science recently.  
John’s hands reach out automatically to tangle in those thick curls and without meaning to his body takes over and he pushes Sherlock further down. To his credit, Sherlock copes well with this sudden introduction to deep-throating. Although he shudders a little convulsively, he adjusts quickly to the foreign object deep in his mouth and sucks harder, occasionally swirling his tongue around or grazing his teeth ever so lightly at the underside of John’s cock. John’s mind hazes and he loses himself in the sensations and the quite frankly delicious sight of those plump pink cubid lips wrapped around him.  
He can feel beads of sweat forming on his brow as he pants and groans, almost unable to cope with the electric pleasure pulsating through his body. Sherlock slides his mouth up, right to the tip, and then plunges down again however this time he introduces his fingers once again, playing with John’s testicles.  
‘Sh-Sherlock! I’m – I’m...’ John manages to gasp, wanting to give the detective some warning. Sherlock merely sucks harder and this, accompanied by another deft movement of that swirling tongue, wrings a heart-stopping orgasm from John.  
‘Sherlock!’  
Sherlock swallows it all down and rocks back on his heels, allowing John’s softening cock to fall from his lips. Absently he flicks out his tongue and laps at a drop of semen on his cheek. The act, had John any energy left, would surely have made him orgasm again.  
‘Interesting. Not completely unpleasant as I was expecting. It’s very you, John.’  
John, mind still a blank, cannot respond. Sherlock smiles and gets to his feet.   
‘You should probably sort yourself out,’ he says calmly, sitting back down on the sofa. ‘Didn’t you say you wanted to go into town to look for lights and decorations?’  
Moving slowly and lethargically, as if through treacle, John heaves his boxers and trousers back up and fastens his belt. ‘Sherlock,’ he says quietly, raking a hand through his hair, ‘not that I’m complaining because that was bloody amazing but... why?’  
Sherlock glances at him. ‘Didn’t you say when we started this thing that I shouldn’t be ashamed of doing what I wanted with you? And if you didn’t want it you’d say no?’  
‘Yes, but...’  
‘I wanted to give you a... what is the colloquial term? A “blowjob”, so I gave you one. And I definitely didn’t hear you saying no.’  
John rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, slightly shakily. ‘Can’t argue with Sherlock Holmes’s logic, can I?’  
Sherlock merely smiles smugly and holds out his tea-mug.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later and they have returned from town laden down with bags of decorations, a tree and Christmas lights. Sherlock is scowling as he thinks of the task ahead of them. Mummy and Mycroft always made such a big deal about Christmas, almost as if they could forget about everything that happened that year if they pretended to themselves they were having a really good time. Sherlock can never forget, and he can never forgive. The gaudy decorations, the tinny, inane music and carols, even the tacky, overly bright presents under the tree, everything about Christmas sets his teeth on edge.  
And yet here is John; his boyfriend, partner, best friend, colleague and flatmate, striding into the flat with a beaming smile on his face, as excited as a little boy. How can he possibly ruin John’s happiness by being his usual, sour self? Sighing deeply he follows John into the living room and pastes a smile onto his face, setting his carrier bags down by the door.  
John turns to him and falters slightly, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Sherlock? Are you feeling alright?’  
Sherlock attempts to maintain the grin. ‘Fine, John. Why?’  
John blinks. ‘Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but that smile on your face looks like you’re being... I don’t know...’  
Sherlock lets the false smile drop and he frowns. ‘I was trying to look happy to please you, John.’  
John rolls his eyes. ‘Well, in future stick to the scowls unless you are actually feeling happy. You’re a good actor, I’ve seen you pretend to smile hundreds of times. None of them looked as weird as that.’ Sherlock shuffles his feet and attempts to move past. John blocks his way, holding an arm out and looking up at the taller man. ‘What’s going on, Sherlock? Why do you hate Christmas so much?’  
Sherlock considers getting angry, his usual reaction to being pushed into a corner, but decides it will do no good. It is only natural for John to be curious after all. He sinks into his chair and places his fingertips underneath his chin, dark curls falling over his eyes as he ponders about how best to proceed. Vaguely he is aware of John sitting down opposite him, those gorgeous, warm blue eyes firmly fixed on his face.  
‘My father killed himself on Christmas day. I was eight. Up until that time, I suppose I’d been like you. Perhaps a little less hysterical with excitement,’ he smiles wryly, ‘but I still loved Christmas. I woke up earlier than usual that morning and as our parents forbade Mycroft and I from opening any stocking presents until they woke up, I decided to go downstairs for a glass of water. I found him in the kitchen. He’d blown his brains out with a shotgun.’  
John recoils in his chair, his eyes wide and horrified. Sherlock continues in a monotone.   
‘We were really close, I hadn’t seen it coming, and you know what it takes for me to admit to something like that. But I suppose at eight, I hadn’t yet honed my craft to perfection.’ Another mirthless smile. ‘So now, every year, Mummy and Mycroft make a big thing out of Christmas, as if by having the world and its wife over, by making enough noise and finding enough distractions, they can just forget it ever happened.’ Sherlock buries his hands in his hair. ‘Fair enough, for them. But I can’t. From that day forward I vowed that I would never allow myself to get close enough to anyone else again. I wonder if you remember that case where Moriarty strapped bombs onto those people?’  
John nods silently.  
‘Well, I told you then that caring wouldn’t help save those people. It’s a philosophy I’ve adhered to my entire life. Until you came along and ruined it all. And now I have you so excited about Christmas, and I want you to be happy, but I can’t be. Do you understand now, John? You may see presents, and baubles and tinsel,’ his voice has become bitter, ‘and all I can see is my selfish arse of a father with his brains blown out all over our kitchen table.’  
He buries his head and his knuckles turn white as his fingers clench in his curls. Suddenly he is aware that there is an arm around his shoulders. He tenses, resisting John’s comfort, not wishing to be feeling these damned emotions yet again.   
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ John’s voice is soft and gentle. He can feel the doctor’s fingers rubbing circles on his shoulder.  
‘I wasn’t aware I had to tell you everything about me just because we’re in a relationship,’ he bites out. He expects the arm to be withdrawn, for John to get angry and hurt. Much to his surprise that doesn’t happen. The comforting weight remains around his shoulders.  
‘You don’t. I just want you to feel comfortable with telling me these sorts of things. If I’d known about this Sherlock... Christ, I wouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it... I’d have...’  
Sherlock shifts away from John’s touch, lifting his head and gazing steadily at his boyfriend. ‘See, John. This. This is why I didn’t tell you. I don’t want you feeling guilty and awkward around me just because it’s Christmas. I... I didn’t want to ruin it for you.’  
‘You’re not going to ruin it for me.’ John pauses and then gets to his feet, holding a hand out to Sherlock. ‘Come on.’ Sherlock frowns.  
‘What are you doing?’  
‘We’re going to decorate the apartment, and we’re going to have fun while we’re doing it. I’m going to show you that you can enjoy Christmas without feeling guilty or angry if it kills me.’  
Sherlock narrows his eyes. A new approach, certainly. But then, this is very John. Straightforward and blunt. He finds that a smile is creeping onto his face.  
‘Fine.’ He takes John’s hand and gets to his feet. Once he is upright he finds himself being pulled into John’s arms, and then the doctor has clasped him tightly around the waist.  
‘For what it’s worth... I’m sorry you had to go through that. Nobody should have to experience something like that, no matter how old they are. Do you know why he did it?’  
Sherlock pulls away and roots his gaze to the worn carpet. ‘He was depressed. He had issues.’  
Sensing that Sherlock obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, John claps his hands together energetically.  
‘Right. Well, let’s go and get the tree from downstairs shall we? It’ll probably take two of us to get it up the stairs.’

Ten Minutes Later

‘Pivot, John! You have to pivot!’ Sherlock shouts, exasperation and a hint of amusement lacing his tone. The tree they have chosen may possibly be a little too big, as it turns out, but it was easily the best at the shop and they both agreed they had to have it.  
John, barely visible between the copious branches, huffs in annoyance. ‘I am bloody pivoting! The thing keeps getting stuck!’  
Sherlock sighs, shifting his grip on the top of the tree which is currently jammed in the tight corner turning of the stairs to the apartment.   
‘Okay, back up a little John, and then we’ll try it again.’ This really shouldn’t be so difficult, he wonders absently as they try and jiggle the tree into a more workable position. It’s just getting a Christmas tree up the stairs of an apartment, after all. Hardly rocket science.   
He sees John take a few steps backwards, and he starts to turn his end of the tree. The trunk begins to bend alarmingly.  
‘It’s going to snap!’ John calls, stopping his movements. Sherlock stops as well and rolls his eyes.  
‘You do agree now that it was probably not a good idea to take it out of that mesh? The mesh made it a lot easier to transport, after all.’  
‘I just wanted to see how the branches looked when they were spread out!’ John shouts, irritation clear in his tone.  
‘Well half the needles are now on the floor. Unless we’re very careful we’re going to end up with a completely bald Christmas tree,’ Sherlock snipes. ‘Mrs Hudson is not going to be happy.’  
‘Sherlock, are you actually going to come up with any helpful ideas? Or are you going to stand there and whine about how all your ideas are better?’  
‘Probably the latter,’ Sherlock says smugly. ‘You should know by now, John. All my ideas invariably are better. Particularly this one. If the mesh was still on, we wouldn’t be having this problem now.’  
‘I’m sick of this,’ John announces loudly. ‘On the count of three, I’ll shove and you pull. I don’t care if we snap the fucking thing in half... I just want to get out of this sodding stairwell.’  
‘Language, John,’ Sherlock murmurs, knowing he is winding John up but unable to help himself.  
‘Shut it,’ John growls, and God help him but Sherlock feels a stirring at those words. John is using his Captain voice again and that always does bad things to his anatomy. ‘Right. Three, two, ONE.’  
Sherlock heaves on his end of the tree while John lunges forwards. The tree, shedding copious needles, shoots forwards like a bullet from a gun. The manoeuvre ends with Sherlock on his back on the stairs, the tree lying partially on top of him and John collapsed on the small landing which marks the turning of the stairwell.  
Sherlock huffs and gets to his feet, grabbing hold of the top of the tree once more with one hand, while his other brushes needles off his clothes. John grabs the bottom of the trunk and between them they manage to get it into the living room.  
‘Okay, next time we’re getting a tree no bigger than three feet,’ John groans, setting the object of all their frustration in its holder near the windows and screwing the nails in while Sherlock holds it in position. ‘Is it straight?’  
‘How on earth do you expect me to tell?’ Sherlock responds. ‘I’m standing right next to it. Does it really matter, anyway?’  
‘I suppose not,’ John mutters, getting up and walking back a few paces. Sherlock joins him and together they stare at the tree. It is tilting at a definite angle to the right. Half of the needles have been shorn off in its traumatic ascension to the second floor. Many of the branches are bent or broken at crazed angles. Sherlock glances at John. The doctor slides his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. ‘Fuck it,’ John says succinctly. ‘It has character. And I’m not realigning it again.’  
Sherlock shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Fair enough,’ he murmurs, turning his attention to the bags of decorations. ‘How exactly do you go about decorating a Christmas tree?’  
John turns to him, his eyes wide. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never decorated one before?’  
‘Well, if I have, I’ve deleted it. I imagine it’s not that difficult anyway.’ He frowns with distaste. ‘A matter of throwing a few strands of tinsel and baubles at it.’  
‘Oh, no Sherlock. You have to get every aspect exactly right. The colour scheme has to fit perfectly. The tinsel has to be draped in such a manner that it enhances, but doesn’t overpower, the other decorations. The lights have to be fixed at such an angle to make the most of all the baubles. The tree has to look equal, no side more adorned than the other. And above all, the topmost decoration has to pull the whole thing together.’  
Sherlock gazes at him, completely nonplussed. John has to stifle his laughter. ‘I’m kidding, Sherlock. That’s how my mother used to do it. In fact, she bought me and Harry a separate tree so that we wouldn’t interfere with her superior designs on the main one.’ He laughs and draws Sherlock in for a deep kiss, tangling his fingers in those thick dark curls once more. Drawing back he strokes a finger down Sherlock’s cheek. ‘Go crazy. Have fun with it, Sherlock. But first, we need to do the lights. Everything else will follow.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lights are eventually sorted. Sherlock unravels the tangled skein of wire while John begins wrapping them around the tree. In a few minutes they have the whole thing done and John places the plug near the power socket.  
‘I don’t want to switch the lights on until the whole thing’s finished,’ he says, flushing a little bit. Sherlock reaches out and plants a kiss on John’s lips, before taking a strand of sparkly golden tinsel out of one of the bags. Hesitantly he steps forward, casting a glance at John, who nods at the tree.  
‘Shall I just put it... anywhere?’ he asks.  
‘Anywhere, Sherlock. Don’t worry about it. Just have fun. Decorating for Christmas isn’t supposed to be an ordeal.’  
Surprising even himself, Sherlock enjoys decorating the tree with John. When they’ve finished the whole thing looks like a Christmas elf has thrown up on it but they’re both happy and flushed, probably from the amount of mulled wine they’ve drunk.  
‘Time for the piece de la resistance,’ John says in a very bad French accent, laughing, and holding out a ridiculously tacky angel to Sherlock, who groans.  
‘Don’t tell me we’re actually putting that on top of the tree.’  
‘No. I’m not. You are, because you’re taller and you can reach.’  
Sherlock wants to scowl, but finds himself quite unable to when he sees John’s glittering eyes, flushed cheeks and happy smile. Sherlock finds himself thinking that he would consider his life well spent if he could ensure that happiness remains on John’s face. Never, never did he think that at some point he would find himself caring so much about one other person’s feelings. John has literally turned his entire world upside down.  
‘Fine,’ he snaps, wanting to retain some shred of his previous cold demeanour. He should have known that John wouldn’t be fooled. The doctor hands him the angel, their fingers brushing still gives him tingles. Stretching, he places the decoration on top of the tree. John moves to the plug and plunges it into the socket.  
Instantly the living room is filled with a warm glow from the dozens of tiny lights. John switches off the main lights and they stand together, staring at their lopsided, overly-decorated tree.  
‘Right! All remaining tinsel is to be attached to various suitable surfaces,’ John cries, grabbing a bag and thrusting another one at Sherlock. ‘Doorhandles, mantelpieces, anything. Meet back here in five minutes.’  
Sherlock cradles his bag. ‘This is ridiculous, John,’ he mutters, but he cannot help the smile on his face as John bounds off towards the bedroom. Sherlock takes a moment to survey the living room and decides on the mantelpiece as the most obvious place to start.  
He roots through the bag until he finds a length of blue and silver tinsel with silver stars attached which catches his eye. Tentatively he drapes it along the mantelpiece, pulling on one end to make it straight, and then stands back to admire the effect. Slowly, absently, he finds himself enjoying this decorating lark. He takes another deep sip of his mulled wine and winds a strand of silver tinsel around the living room doorhandle, attaches another to the fridge and, after some consideration, drapes some over the picture frame which hangs near the tree. The alcohol is starting to affect him, making his limbs feel looser and his mind more accepting and free. On the spur of the moment he feeds a pink and purple strand of tinsel through his belt hoops and ties it in a knot at the side. The bag is now virtually empty but at the very bottom he finds gold and scarlet beads attached to a fine golden thread. Carefully he winds them through the bannisters of the stairs, right down to the bottom.  
As he finishes, Mrs Hudson’s door opens and the lady pokes her head out. She gazes in confusion at Sherlock, with the tinsel wrapped around his waist, finishing tying the beads in place at the bottom of the stairs.  
‘Sherlock?’ she asks, her voice ringing with confusion.  
‘Mrs Hudson!’ he says, getting up and moving to hug her enthusiastically.   
‘What are you doing?’  
He frowns slightly. ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m decorating.’  
She pulls back, gazing at him, and then an understanding smile wreaths her lined face. ‘Ahh... John got to you, then?’  
‘Nonsense, Mrs Hudson,’ he says haughtily. ‘I’m the mastermind behind this whole decorating lark. John’s just the muscle.’  
‘Well, I think it’s lovely you’re doing things together. I told John I’d pop in for a few minutes on Christmas day, I hope that’s alright?’  
If anybody else had suggested interrupting Sherlock’s promised Christmas day alone with John, he would have had no problem with telling them exactly how unwelcome their company would be. But Mrs Hudson... Mrs Hudson is an exception. Sherlock smiles, something he is doing scarily often these last few days, and nods.  
‘Of course it is, Mrs Hudson, of course it is. Have you still got the presents I gave you?’  
She nods. ‘Yes, they’re in my sewing room.’  
‘And you haven’t looked at them?’  
She looks vaguely affronted. ‘Of course I haven’t, Sherlock. You told me they were secret.’  
‘Excellent. I’ll be down to wrap them tomorrow. John is meeting Harry so I should have a few hours spare.’  
Mrs Hudson nods and gazes at him for such a long moment that Sherlock begins to feel a little uncomfortable.  
‘You’re so good for each other, you know,’ she says, a little misty-eyed. Sherlock fidgets. He is not nearly drunk enough to cope with crying women, it has never been exactly his area of expertise, unless he’s making them cry in order to get information out of them in relation to a case.   
‘I’m not good for him,’ he mumbles, voicing one of his fears aloud for the first time. ‘I’m too... odd. Too unemotional.’  
‘Nonsense,’ she snaps briskly. ‘Don’t you start feeling all sorry for yourself, Sherlock. I know you, good and bad. And John is lucky to have you. You’re lucky to have him. You... compliment each other.’ She smiles absently. ‘Like yin and yang, you two.’  
‘You’re a star, you know that?’ Sherlock says. The woman looks incredibly touched and places a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, contact he wouldn’t have permitted from anyone else apart from John.  
‘Look after each other,’ she whispers, and then withdraws into her apartment. Sherlock climbs the stairs back to the living room, taking another deep sip of wine as goes.  
John is still absent when he returns, so he settles himself on the sofa with one of John’s medical journals. He finds them interesting to read when the mood takes him, the subject matter could easily come in useful on a case at some point.  
‘It’s beautiful.’  
Sherlock is so engrossed he hasn’t even heard John re-enter the room. He glances up, placing the book back on the table as he does so. His boyfriend is standing at the door, gazing at the strategically placed tinsel with an unfathomable look in his eyes. Sherlock stands up and fidgets slightly.  
‘Is it alright? I tried to do what you said... mantelpieces and doorhandles and everything.’  
‘It’s brilliant,’ John replies, walking over and winding an arm around Sherlock’s waist.  
‘There’s something else as well, I might have got carried away.’ Sherlock walks them over to the stairwell and points out the beads winding their way down. John smiles.  
‘Wow, you really got into this decorating thing didn’t you?’  
‘I’ve got you to thank for it,’ Sherlock responds, drawing them back onto the sofa. As they sit down, John’s eyes flit to Sherlock’s belt.  
‘You’ve actually... you’ve made yourself a belt out of tinsel?’  
‘Just a spur of the moment thing,’ Sherlock shrugs.  
‘I absolutely adore you. I love you Sherlock.’ John leans forward and kisses him. Sherlock automatically opens his lips, allowing John full access to his mouth. John sucks at his bottom lip before reaching out his tongue. They dance for dominance, and Sherlock lets John win. The kiss becomes even more passionate and heat-filled, little groans of pleasure are escaping John and Sherlock feels his jeans becoming impossibly tight around his groin. He rakes a hand through John’s sandy hair, revelling in the feel of it, in the feel of John kissing him like he can’t get enough.  
They fall backwards on the sofa so that Sherlock is lying underneath John, their chests pressed together, rising and falling with the beat of their passion. Gasping, John tears his mouth away from Sherlock’s.  
‘Too many clothes,’ is all he manages to utter. Sherlock wholeheartedly agrees. Revelling once more in the use of both his hands, he grasps the hem of John’s jumper and yanks it upwards over the shorter man’s head, ruffling those silky blonde strands of hair as he does so. Underneath, John is wearing a simple loose blue t-shirt and Sherlock wastes no time in lifting that off as well, so that he has John topless on top of him. He runs his hands up and down that muscled torso, pausing for an instant at the tangle of scarred tissue on John’s shoulder. The doctor pauses and gazes down at Sherlock, his eyes suddenly filled with worry.  
‘I know it’s ugly, I...’  
‘Shhh,’ Sherlock hisses, raising his head upwards, ‘it’s not ugly. How could it be? It’s part of you.’ He flicks his tongue lightly, teasingly over the wound and John throws his head back, wondering at the feeling of somebody else touching a part of him he’s kept so private. Sherlock’s tongue feels amazing, almost like it has healing powers as it worships the scar.  
‘You still have too many clothes on,’ John murmurs, pulling at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Although his fingers fumble with impatience he still manages to get them all undone, and slowly he pushes the fabric aside to reveal Sherlock’s pale chest. John’s breath hitches at the sight, as it always does.  
‘I can’t believe I’m this lucky,’ he murmurs, tracing a gentle finger down across Sherlock’s abs which clench and release at the touch.   
‘I’m the lucky one,’ Sherlock states, gasping a little at the sensation of John’s finger on his skin.  
‘Get this off,’ John says, raising Sherlock half off the sofa so he can fully remove the silk shirt. As he does so his fingers encounter the slightly raised scars on Sherlock’s back and he feels the detective stiffen slightly.  
‘You’re beautiful,’ John murmurs to him softly, knowing what Sherlock needs to hear at this moment. ‘These scars... they show how strong you are... you survived, after all he had to throw at you, you survived. You’re here, with me. And he’ll never hurt you again. In fact...’ Without finishing his sentence he flips Sherlock over beneath him. The detective huffs in surprise as he finds himself suddenly face down in the cushions, and his face flushes with heat as he realises he’s presenting his whole back, in all its scarred glory, to John Watson’s intense scrutiny.  
He gasps suddenly as he feels a hot kiss being pressed to one of the lash marks. John is kissing his way down Sherlock’s back, each individual scar being treated to the gentle, healing touch of John’s tongue and lips.  
Sherlock bucks beneath him, his mind going into overdrive. He can feel John slowly swiping his tongue over the marks just at his waistline and then he is flipped over again and his eyes are meeting those all-encompassing dark blue orbs.  
John, still keeping Sherlock’s gaze, begins undoing the fastenings of the detective’s trousers. Soon enough he gets them undone and pulls them and Sherlock’s boxers down, over his feet, and throws them to the side. Sherlock lies naked beneath him, his breathing fast and heavy, his pupils blown wide with lust and love.  
‘Do you trust me?’ John asks seriously, his gaze lasering down into Sherlock. The detective takes a moment before replying.  
‘Yes.’  
‘I want to make love to you, Sherlock. I meant to ask you for this on Christmas Day but... seeing you here...’ he shakes his head slightly. ‘This was my third “condition” or “wish”. I’ve thought about it and... I want you. I want every inch of you.’  
Sherlock feels his mind going into hyperdrive. Yes, he loves John, without a shadow of a doubt but – this is a big step. John strokes his cheek gently.  
‘We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Sherlock. I’m only saying that I’m ready. The next step is up to you. Totally.’  
Sherlock takes a moment to collect himself. His logical mind is thinking, this is good, this is what you want. However the slightly irrational part of himself which he hides so often from everybody is screaming it will hurt – it will be like Moriarty – it will hurt!  
In response, Sherlock pulls John’s head down and meets his lips in a bruising kiss. He fumbles with John’s belt and manages to get it undone, his pale fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper.  
John shimmies out of his jeans and boxers until he is completely nude. His cock is pressing against Sherlock’s stomach, begging for attention.  
‘Here?’ John asks, hesitantly.  
‘It’s as good a place as any,’ Sherlock responds, hoping his anxiety doesn’t show in his words.   
‘Have you... have you got any...?’ John doesn’t have to finish his sentence.   
‘Wait there a moment, I’ll be right back.’ John shifts, allowing Sherlock to slither out from underneath him and move towards the door. The doctor takes a moment to admire those narrow hips and those perfectly sculpted buttocks.   
Once Sherlock has disappeared he collapses back on the sofa. He hadn’t meant this to happen so soon. He’d wanted it to be Christmas Day but the evening he’s spent with Sherlock has been revealing to him in so many ways. Although he had come to terms with the idea of ‘being’ with Sherlock as a couple, he’d had some issues in what he’s thought about the notion of penetrative sex with the other man. He’d wanted it, oh God, how he’d wanted it but... it is all so new to him. Over the last couple of days, when Sherlock has been out of the apartment, he has spent time in researching gay porn, hoping to learn a few tips on what to do. Sherlock is a virgin, he knows that. And although he has no doubts that the detective has done research of his own on the topic of sex, he is the one in the relationship who has actually had first hand experience, admittedly only with women.  
The pressure bears down on him. He has to make this good for Sherlock, he has to show him that sex is not just a means to an end for pleasure. He wants that connection, the feeling of their two bodies being as closely joined as is possible, he wants to gaze into Sherlock’s eyes and show him that he is worthy of being loved, adored and worshipped. Sherlock deserves it.  
John senses when the detective re-enters the room, hears the light padding of bare feet on the carpet. He shuts his eyes briefly and then opens them to see the anxious face of Sherlock Holmes staring down at him, a bottle of lube in one hand and a couple of condoms in the other.  
Without saying a word John gets up from the sofa and draws the curtains closed across the windows. The living room is now only lit with the soft light of the Christmas tree and it casts a glow across their naked skin. John rakes Sherlock with his eyes, that dark, curly hair, slightly mussed and dishevelled from their earlier activities. The amazing, wolf-like grey eyes blazing with lust. He notes the musculature of the other man’s chest in total contrast to his slender stature, the way his ribs show slightly, the soft dark hairs which gather together at his breastbone and lead the way down to just below his hipbones which jut from beneath his pale skin.  
He sees Sherlock’s cock rising up from its bed of dark, curly pubic hair, and his gaze travels down to the detective’s slim thighs and calves and finally to his bare feet.  
Silently he removes the cushions from the sofa and the armchairs and places them on the floor as a makeshift bed. Lying back, he beckons Sherlock with a finger.  
The other man takes his place beside him and as John stretches out a hand to caress a pale shoulder he can feel Sherlock shaking with nerves.  
Gently he turns Sherlock’s head to face his and captures his lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss. He feels the detective give in to him, those soft lips opening to let him in, breathy moans emanating from them both. He also senses the tension literally dissipate from the other man as he shifts slightly closer.   
‘Let me in, Sherlock,’ he breathes. ‘I want you so much. I want to make love to you, show you what it should be, how it should make you feel.’  
‘Yes, John,’ Sherlock hisses, his chest heaving. John moves on top of him, rubbing their erections together as he does so, drawing a gasp from them both.  
‘I’ll show you how good it can be,’ John says, rutting into him. Sherlock clenches his fists in the cushions beneath him.   
‘I want you, John,’ he murmurs. ‘God, I want you.’  
‘All you need to do is trust me,’ John responds, reaching out for the bottle of lube. ‘Trust me and relax. It will be painful at first but...’  
‘I don’t care,’ Sherlock moans, clutching at John’s hips. ‘I want you. I want you inside me, now.’  
John slits open the foil of the condom and slides it onto himself. He reaches out for the lube and his fingers fumble with it until he gets the top unscrewed and tips some out onto his shaking fingers.  
‘Relax,’ he says again in a hushed and reverential tone. Suddenly, something occurs to him. ‘This might make it easier on you if you were... in a different position.’  
‘Like what?’ Sherlock asks, his pupils blown wide with arousal.  
In answer John turns Sherlock onto his front and then raises him so the taller man is before him on his hands and knees. His breath hitches as he looks at this spectacular man ready and waiting for him.  
‘So stunning,’ he murmurs, running a finger down from the scars on Sherlock’s back to the cleft of his buttocks. Sherlock moans in desire.  
‘Just do it, John.’  
John slicks up his cock in preparation and then makes sure his fingers are well-coated. Slowly he reaches a finger out to that small, puckered hole. Just as he reaches it and his finger touches flesh, Sherlock tenses up immediately. John can tell from the stiffening of his shoulders.  
‘Sherlock?’  
Sherlock gasps out a hitching breath, unable to respond.  
How can he tell John that having contact that close to that spot makes his mind automatically flash right back to that night in the cellar with Moriarty. That intrusive finger circling and pressing...  
‘Sherlock, are you okay?’  
John is going to think he’s not worth the effort. Too much baggage. Why would anybody want to be with him if he cannot give them what they want? John clearly wants to fuck him and yet...   
John can see Sherlock’s breathing get faster and faster, almost as if the other man is close to hyperventilating. He backs off and moves around so that he is next to Sherlock. The detective’s mouth is tightly pressed in a thin line and his eyes are wide and panicked.  
‘You’re okay, Sherlock. Come on, breathe for me.’  
Slowly, Sherlock’s breathing returns to normal. John presses a kiss to his lips.  
‘This was too much, I’m so sorry Sherlock, I should have realised...’  
‘No,’ Sherlock gasps hoarsely. ‘It’s me. I’m – I’m so sorry, John. I want you to but... I can’t get him out of my head whenever...’  
John’s mind flashes back to the moment he found Sherlock in that cellar. Moriarty almost lying on top of him, his finger circling. He bites his lip, his eyes blazing with anger.  
‘It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not going to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Just breathe. Calm down.’  
Slowly his murmured assurances begin to take effect. Sherlock calms and his body stills. John moves as if to stand up.  
‘Come on, we need to get to sleep.’  
Sherlock yanks him back down, his eyes burning.  
‘No. I want this, John. I want it more than anything. I want you to be my first. For once you can teach me something.’ He raises his eyebrows in amusement. ‘I bet you never thought you’d hear me saying that.’  
John chuckles slightly. ‘No, I didn’t.’ He turns serious as he gazes into Sherlock eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’  
‘Absolutely.’  
Slowly John moves back into position and slicks up his fingers again. Once more he reaches out and his index finger presses against Sherlock’s entrance. He circles for a moment before pressing in.  
John has to stifle a groan as he sees his finger disappear into Sherlock’s body, as he feels the tight, hot, wetness surround it. Sherlock hisses slightly in discomfort, shifting his body back and forth as he tries to acclimatise to the foreign object in him.  
John takes his time in sliding his finger in and out, in and out, until Sherlock is no longer displaying any discomfort.  
‘You feel so good,’ John murmurs, deciding it’s time to introduce another finger. As he slides both into Sherlock, the detective groans and John sees his fists clench against the cushions.  
‘J-John...’  
‘It’s alright. Just relax. I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’ll make it good.’ Slowly John starts to scissor his fingers, he recalls the research he’s done on the internet. He reaches further in to Sherlock’s body, trying to find that elusive spot. He knows when he finds it. Just as his questing fingers nudge that spongy knot of nerves, Sherlock arches his back and cries out his name.  
‘John!’  
John starts to scissor more roughly, stretching the detective out until Sherlock is pressing himself down on his fingers, aching for more.  
‘John, I’m ready. I’m ready.’  
‘Are you sure...?’  
‘Yes! Come on!’  
John has to smile at the detective’s typical impatience. He withdraws his fingers, Sherlock moaning at the loss, and slicks up his cock. Carefully he lines himself up and he’ll be damned if that isn’t the hottest sight he’s ever seen. His own cock about to penetrate Sherlock Holmes. The only one to penetrate Sherlock Holmes. He feels enormously privileged and also a little bit scared.  
‘This will hurt... just say the word if it gets too much and I’ll stop,’ John murmurs. Sherlock jolts his head in impatient acknowledgement.  
Slowly, ever so slowly, John nudges the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle. It puts up resistance, even after being stretched, and John can feel it. More than that he hears the indrawn hiss of breath and Sherlock’s pained groans.  
‘Sherlock?’ he asks worriedly, halfway in, almost dying at the feeling of having that tight heat surrounding him.  
‘Go on,’ Sherlock snaps, pain lacing his tone. John, worried almost out of his mind, pushes further in, groaning at the feeling of Sherlock’s body opening wide for him.  
‘Shit, Sherlock!’ he pants, stilling his movements once he is all the way in. He can feel how tense Sherlock is and the detective is gasping shallow breaths, his head hanging almost to the carpet. ‘Breathe, Sherlock! Just relax... relax.’  
‘It... hurts, John,’ Sherlock moans. John feels his heart splinter a little and he leans forward to place gentle butterfly kisses on Sherlock’s back.  
‘Just trust me. It will get better. Let me in, Sherlock. Trust me.’ Gradually, and oh so slowly, he withdraws a little and pushes back in. Sherlock moans with pain again. ‘I love you, I love you so much.’  
Withdrawing once more he pushes back in and feels himself hit Sherlock’s prostate. The reaction of the other man is remarkable, he screams aloud and arches his back.  
‘John! Yes!’  
Smiling, John thrusts again, making sure to hit the same point. Sherlock pants and clenches his fists once more.  
‘I love you,’ John mutters, thrusting deeper and harder this time. Sherlock rocks forward with the motion, feeling John’s testicles slap against his buttocks.  
‘John, I love you,’ he groans with all the breath left in his body. The pain, at one point all consuming, begins to leave, and in its place is a blinding pleasure. Sherlock butts back against John, wanting him deeper.  
Struck with a sudden idea, John flips Sherlock over so that he is lying on his back. Gently he grasps pale ankles and heaves those slender legs over his shoulders. This new angle allows him to go much deeper into Sherlock and he takes full advantage of it. The detective is moaning constantly, his pale face flushed and his limbs trembling. John revels in this feeling, having Sherlock beneath him so open, so pliant.  
He snaps his hips and drives in faster and harder. Sherlock reaches a hand up to rake at John’s uninjured shoulder desperately.  
‘God yes, John! Please! It’s so good!’  
Sherlock’s heat is all encompassing, even through the rubbery material of the condom and John’s eyes roll back slightly as his thrusts become more erratic. He can feel the familiar pressure building in his abdomen, a harbinger of the coming explosion. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last long. For weeks now this has been his obsession and now that it is a reality his emotions ensure a quick release.  
Gasping, beyond words, he grasps Sherlock’s bobbing, aching cock and strokes feverishly, wanting to bring Sherlock to the edge. From the babbled words spilling from the detective’s full lips, it’s working.  
‘J-John, it’s t-too much! I-I’m...’  
‘It’s okay,’ he pants harshly. ‘I’m close too. Christ, Sherlock!’  
He thrusts deeply once more and Sherlock falls.   
‘Fuck!’ he screams, his orgasm overtaking him abruptly, white come spurting all over his stomach and John’s hand. John can feel Sherlock’s muscles clenching around him and he manages a few more deep thrusts before his own orgasm is milked from him.  
‘Sherlock!’  
His boyfriend’s legs slip from his shoulders to fall to the cushions with a dull thud. John’s own shaking limbs cannot support him as his mind blanks with the force of his orgasm and he has just enough time to pull out of Sherlock’s body before he collapses at Sherlock’s side. They lie side by side, breathing heavily, faces flushed, skin aglow in the light from the Christmas tree.  
After a few minutes John leans over and turns Sherlock’s face to his, kissing the other man gently but deeply, his tongue flicking into Sherlock’s mouth, tasting the musky flavour of the mulled wine and that individual essence which is purely Sherlock.  
Sherlock moans softly and fiddles with a strand of John’s hair before separating them and heaving himself up on his elbows. John reaches down and shakily removes the condom, knotting the top with ease. Gazing around he spots the waste paper basket and tosses the filled sheath with unerring ability straight in. Then he turns to look at the detective properly.  
‘Sherlock? Are you alright? How was it?’  
For a brief moment the other man doesn’t respond, and then he turns to look at John and there is such blinding joy in his eyes John almost blinks.   
‘Thank you, John,’ is all he says. John smiles back at him and snags a tissue from the table, holding it out so Sherlock can clean himself up.  
‘What do you say we bring the pillows and duvet down here for tonight?’ John asks, for some reason wanting to drift off to sleep right here with Sherlock in his arms. The detective pauses and then nods.  
‘That’s certainly an attractive proposition,’ he murmurs. ‘However I have grave doubts about my ability to move from this spot so you’d be the one getting the bedding.’  
John barks out a laugh and slowly gets to his feet. He returns a few minutes later, his arms full of duvet and pillows. He’s also bought down Sherlock’s pyjama trousers and he’s wearing fresh boxers.   
He throws the trousers at Sherlock, smiling slightly as Sherlock raises his hips stiffly from the cushions in order to pull them on. It is definitely rare to see Sherlock move so jerkily instead of his customary grace.  
‘Yeah, you’ll probably be a bit sore tomorrow,’ John murmurs, throwing the duvet over their bodies and pressing his body flush against Sherlock’s.   
‘I don’t care. Also, I’ve been led to believe that the more one does this activity the easier it gets.’ He smirks at John and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
‘So I’m guessing you want to do it again?’ John asks slyly, his eyes sparkling.  
‘Naturally,’ Sherlock purrs, pulling John in closer against his chest. ‘I think it has the potential to be a fascinating experiment.’


	24. Christmas Eve

Chapter Twenty-Four

Christmas Eve

John wakes up in the early morning to the lilting strains of Sherlock’s violin. He keeps his eyes closed but allows a small smile to work its way onto his face. He has missed this. And best of all, Sherlock is playing a gentle, relaxing, beautiful melody. Hopefully this means the strangled cat sounds are a thing of the past.  
Slowly he cracks open his eyes. Pale, early morning light is seeping through the material of the curtains which are still closed. The lights on the tree are still twinkling. Sherlock is standing by the window, his violin cradled in his left hand while the bow flies over the strings. John sighs a little and shifts on the makeshift bed of cushions to let Sherlock know he’s awake, if he didn’t know already. The detective turns his head to glance briefly at him, but he doesn’t stop playing.  
John hauls himself up to a sitting position and rubs at his eyes sleepily. ‘Morning, Sherlock.’  
The detective continues playing for another few minutes, during which time John tries to ruffle his morning bed-hair into some semblance of order. Eventually Sherlock gently places the violin on the table and saunters over to flop next to John on the cushions. It seems he swiftly regrets this action as a slight spasm of pain crosses his features momentarily. John, however, catches it and frowns.  
‘Are you alright?’ he asks. Sherlock smiles ruefully.  
‘Little sore,’ he says by way of an explanation. John flushes and then clears his throat.  
‘Ahh, yes, well... that can happen,’ he responds. ‘I’m sorry if it got a little – rough.’  
‘No problem at all,’ Sherlock quips, his eyes twinkling. He lies back on the cushions with his arms beneath his head and stares up at the ceiling. John mirrors his pose and they lie in silence for a few minutes. Eventually Sherlock turns his head to look at John.  
‘I’m afraid we might be burdened at some point today with a visit from my brother. I informed him that we would be spending Christmas alone here and he insisted on coming round with presents for us from him and Mummy.’  
John sits bolt upright. ‘Christ! I haven’t got your mother a present!’ He rounds on Sherlock accusingly, who is gazing at him, slightly alarmed. ‘You could have told me she would be getting me something!’  
Sherlock yawns and resumes looking at the ceiling. ‘You don’t have to get her a present, John. I never do. I never get them for anybody. It’s ridiculous, this tradition of exchanging gifts with other people on this one day in the year just to show that you care. Absurd.’  
John sighs and replies evenly, ‘It’s not just one day in the year, Sherlock. What about birthdays?’  
‘Don’t get them presents then either,’ he responds. ‘Why should people celebrate, and expect presents for, an event which has absolutely nothing to do with them?’ He joins John in sitting upright and ruffles his hands through his hair, a true sign he is irritated. ‘It’s another year on the planet... well done for surviving this far... here’s a perfectly useless and meaningless gift.’  
John gazes at him and then bursts out laughing. Sherlock scowls. ‘I don’t see anything funny about this, John.’  
‘No, well, you wouldn’t,’ John says, pecking Sherlock on the lips and heaving himself to his feet. ‘We should get this cleared away. If my sister and Mycroft are descending upon us today I don’t want evidence that we’ve... that we’ve...’ he stumbles over stating exactly what their activities were and Sherlock, with true blunt accuracy, helps him out.  
‘Fucked like rabbits in the living room?’ he suggests, with one of his patented deadpan expressions. John barks a laugh and then coughs to try and cover it up.  
‘Yes, something like that.’

XXXXXXXXXXX

The tidy up doesn’t last too long. Sherlock doesn’t actually physically help, instead he lounges on the sofa, directing operations. Or at least, he calls it directing. John calls it being a giant pain in the ass.  
Finally the living room is restored to its former glory (no thanks to Sherlock). John opens the curtains and allows the morning light to flood into the flat. He switches off the Christmas tree lights and collapses in his armchair.  
‘Would you like a cup of tea, John?’ Sherlock asks, pale grey eyes searching John’s face. John turns his head.  
‘Okay, what have you done?’  
‘I haven’t done anything. You have just cleaned the living room after all. I imagine you would want something to drink. That is usually your habit after you’ve exerted yourself, isn’t it?’  
John sighs. ‘Just not seven teabags again, Sherlock. It only takes one teabag to make a cup of tea. Do not delete,’ he adds, laughing.  
Sherlock snorts in response. ‘I know that, John. It was an experiment, that was all.’  
They pass a comfortable few hours in near silence. John, after studying the tea brought to him by Sherlock, finally accepts that it seems to be the right colour, has no strange aromas and so dares to take a sip. Sherlock, drinking his own and watching John wryly, raises an eyebrow.  
‘Well?’  
‘Not bad. Quite good, actually.’  
Sherlock smiles smugly and settles back to rewriting his case notes. After another few minutes of this he shoves his laptop to the side and flops back on the sofa, burying his hands deep in his hair and sighing loudly.  
John, well used to dramatic behaviour of this sort from Sherlock, glances up.  
‘Anything wrong?’  
The detective sits bolt upright and fishes for his phone in his dressing gown pocket. Locating it, he furiously scrolls through his contacts.  
‘I’m ringing Lestrade. I want to see if he has any cases I can work on. It’s driving me mad, just looking through all these old ones.’  
‘Sherlock, no cases until after Christmas. Boxing Day at the earliest. I don’t want to spend Christmas Day running around London after a dangerous criminal with you.’  
Sherlock looks faintly puzzled. ‘Why on earth not?’ he asks, but then turns away as Lestrade obviously answers. ‘Yes, Lestrade, it’s me. I want to know if you have any cases you need my assistance on.’ He pauses as the Inspector speaks and then sighs. ‘Yes, I’ve talked it over with John, he agrees that I need to get back to work.’  
John rolls his eyes at him and mouths, Not until after Christmas, before getting up to boil the kettle again.  
‘Oh, really?’ Sherlock says, frowning. ‘Well, if you think it necessary... fine, yes. We’ll see you later.’  
John glances over from where he’s plopping teabags in the mugs. ‘What was that about?’  
Sherlock grimaces. ‘Lestrade says he’ll be “popping” over later today to drop off presents. He says we can talk about the case then. Honestly John, who else is suddenly going to decide to drop in on us today? Molly? Sergeant Donovan? Moriarty’s ghost?’  
John laughs and carries the tea back into the room, handing the detective his. ‘Well, I’d say the latter two are distinctly unlikely. Molly, however, is besotted with you, so anything’s possible.’  
‘Oh, it’s just all so tedious. I suppose you’ll want me to be all happy and smiley and talkative.’  
John raises a hand, laughing. ‘Woah, let’s not go mad. I’m not expecting a complete change in your usual character. Just try not to bicker too much with Mycroft. Honestly, you two together lend a completely new meaning to the phrase “sibling rivalry”.’  
‘Fine,’ Sherlock snaps, getting up. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’  
He turns to leave the room and John saunters up behind him, laying a hand on his arm, effectively halting his movements. ‘Would you like some company?’ he murmurs softly. ‘I need a shower too and we’d save a lot of water...’  
With a slight growl Sherlock spins on his heels and pushes John against the doorframe, kissing him hungrily. John groans and sucks the detective’s full lower lip between his own. Sherlock cards his hands through John’s hair and swipes his tongue into the doctor’s mouth and John responds, battling Sherlock for control. Rather surprisingly Sherlock concedes to him and John spins them around so that now Sherlock is the one with his back pressed against the wood of the doorframe. John feels his erection straining against his boxers and Sherlock’s thin pyjama trousers are doing nothing to conceal his arousal which is pressed firmly into John’s hipbone.  
John pulls himself away from Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips reluctantly and murmurs, ‘I thought you said something about a shower?’  
Without saying a word Sherlock grasps John’s wrist and almost hauls him up the stairs towards the bathroom, pausing every few steps to press heated and bruising kisses to John’s lips.  
Eventually they make it into the bathroom and clothes are shed as quickly as possible. John makes quick work of Sherlock’s pyjamas and swiftly shucks his boxers off.  
Stepping into the shower, Sherlock switches it on and it rains down on his head, pulling out the curls until his dark hair is plastered to his lower neck. John admires this sight for a minute, Sherlock’s long, pale body bowed under the pressure of the water, the droplets running down his scarred back, between his buttocks and coursing down his pale thighs. Sherlock sighs as the hot water hits him and the sound sends a rush of blood straight to John’s cock. Sherlock tips his head back, exposing the expanse of his throat.   
‘Well, John? Are you joining me?’   
Hurriedly John steps into the tub and moves to press his chest flush against Sherlock’s back, one muscular arm wrapping around the detective’s waist. Sherlock allows his head to fall back upon John’s shoulder and John takes the opportunity to mouth kisses at the exposed throat. After a minute or two of John growing steadily harder as Sherlock moans, the doctor reluctantly pulls away and reaches out for the shampoo. Sherlock twists to face him, his stormy grey eyes dark with lust.  
‘John. What are you doing?’  
‘We’re in the shower, Sherlock. I’m washing my hair,’ he replies calmly, although his pulse is racing and he is hyper aware of the building ache in his groin.   
Sherlock gazes at him and John allows himself to feel slightly smug for a few seconds at rendering the detective speechless as he squirts some shampoo in his hand and lathers it up before plunging his fingers into his hair, massaging the roots. Cracking open one eye he takes in Sherlock’s expression and lets a very deliberate sigh of pleasure. The detective’s eyes narrow. John smiles slightly and continues lathering for a few seconds before he ducks around Sherlock and allows the cascading water to pour over him, the soap suds from the shampoo sliding down his torso. Gasping slightly he shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair a few more times, making absolutely sure he has got all the shampoo out. When he finally opens his eyes Sherlock is still gazing at him, his full lips slightly parted and his eyes slightly glazed.  
‘Do you want me to do yours?’ John asks conversationally, glancing down and pretending to not notice Sherlock’s straining erection. It seems the detective is, for once, beyond words, and instead merely nods, his eyes never leaving John.  
John squeezes more shampoo into his hands, slightly more this time, Sherlock has more hair then him, and moves closer to the detective, dark blue gaze meeting cloudy grey. He gestures at the stream of water from the shower-head and Sherlock, understanding his meaning at once (of course), moves past him to duck his head under the torrent, soaking his hair once more and then returns to his previous position.   
Without a word John moves closer and plunges his lathered hands into Sherlock’s still streaming hair, fingers massaging the detective’s scalp as he works the shampoo deeper and deeper.  
Sherlock lets out a gutteral moan and his thin hands clench onto John’s hips as he draws them closer together. John’s hands clench slightly in Sherlock’s hair as their arousals press together due to the new position. A scorching line of fire blazes through his crotch and he bites his lip hard to stop a groan escaping. Sherlock however, seems to have recovered the use of his vocal chords, as he thrusts gently against the doctor.  
‘Ah God, John...’  
John’s mind is beginning to haze. He’d meant to keep a clear head but what with the twin sensations of Sherlock rutting against him and the feel of the detective’s thick dark hair entwined in his fingers he is starting to lose control. The ache is building within him and he cannot help but thrust back against Sherlock, his hands’ movements becoming rougher and wilder.   
Eventually he cannot take it any longer.   
‘Wash,’ he barks at Sherlock, removing his hands from the man’s hair and pushing him backwards under the pounding water. Sherlock gasps as the torrent hits his head and closes his eyes just in time as the suds course down his face, neck and torso. John groans as he takes in the sight of Sherlock’s pale skin reddening gradually with the heat of the water, as he sees the shampoo caressing that taut, lightly muscled stomach, trickling down and catching momentarily on the detective’s now-throbbing erection.   
A low growl forces its way out of his throat and he pins Sherlock against the tiled wall of the shower, just out of the spray.   
‘John...’ Sherlock whispers hoarsely as John’s hand closes around the detective’s cock. John works him slowly at first but soon begins to pick up the pace. Sherlock groans and responds by reaching out for John’s own arousal. As he wraps his fingers around the thick, hot, wet flesh John jolts forward, his free hand coming up to steady himself against the tiles of the bathroom wall.  
‘Sherlock,’ he pants as the detective’s nimble fingers speed up. Their dripping bodies move together in mounting urgency and gasped expulsions of pleasure accompany the roar of the water hitting the porcelain base of the tub.  
‘John, I’m close...’ Sherlock manages to hiss, his hand tightening around John’s cock.   
‘Me too...’ John responds harshly, his free hand finding Sherlock’s wrist and pinning it back against the wall as he presses hungry kisses on Sherlock’s mouth. ‘God you’re stunning.’ He enforces this sentiment with a flick of his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock and the detective falls apart spectacularly, coming in thick spurts all over John’s hand. The feel of Sherlock pulsing ensures that John follows him swiftly over the edge, his teeth biting into the delicate flesh at Sherlock’s neck as he does so.  
Breathing hard, still enmeshed in a tight embrace, both spend a few seconds recovering before John pushes away from Sherlock and switches off the shower.  
‘We should get out, I’m beginning to prune,’ he says, examining his fingers. Sherlock looks thoroughly confused, his eyes narrowed.  
‘You’re beginning to what?’ he asks. John glances at him as he gets out of the shower and grasps at a towel.  
‘Prune. You know, when your skin goes wrinkly from too much exposure to water. Don’t tell me you don’t know that saying.’  
Sherlock, wrapping a towel around his waist, snorts in derision. ‘John, I have told you many times about my habit of deleting unneccessray and pointless data from my brain. In what possible circumstances could knowing that delightfully trivial piece of information be useful to me?’  
John grabs his boxers off the floor and thrusts Sherlock’s pyjama trousers and dressing gown at him. ‘I don’t know, perhaps one day you’ll get a case with an incriminating message...’ he tails off, trying not to laugh at the infuriated expression on his boyfriend’s face.  
‘It was a joke, Sherlock. A joke. I do agree that knowing about one of the meanings of the word “prune” is probably unlikely to help you on any cases.’  
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock snaps, only slightly mollified, stalking past John and heaving open the bathroom door.  
‘However,’ John continues as they make their way into the bedroom to dress, ‘I do still find it ridiculous that you don’t know about the Solar System.’  
Sherlock whirls around in the middle of their bedroom, causing John to stumble to an unexpected halt. ‘Oh for God’s sake... are you ever going to let that go?’  
John smiles and shakes his head, shrugging. ‘It’s the Solar System,’ he says in reply as he pulls on his jeans, a t-shirt and his favourite oatmeal jumper.  
‘Fine,’ Sherlock retorts, collapsing on the bed and rolling onto his side, facing away from John.  
‘Are you going to sulk now, then?’ John asks brightly, working his fingers through his still damp hair and peering at his reflection in the mirror. No answer from the detective. ‘Excellent. I’ll be downstairs making tea, watching telly, and generally acting like a normal person does on Christmas Eve. You’re welcome to join me.’  
He can’t stop the small chuckles which escape as he makes his way down to the kitchen and flicks on the kettle. Sherlock can be such a child sometimes, but now John finds it almost unbearably adorable rather than unbearably irritating. It’s funny what love can do to a person.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock doesn’t deign to descend until about twenty past twelve in the afternoon at which point John has already consumed numerous cups of tea, watched several inane television programmes and is debating starting on lunch.  
‘Ah, you’re still alive then,’ John says as Sherlock stalks into the room, fully dressed in his usual impeccably cut suit, and flings himself down on the sofa.  
‘Obviously, John,’ he responds, focusing his attention on the television screen. ‘What on earth is this?’  
‘It’s a Come Dine With Me Christmas special,’ John says happily, not allowing Sherlock’s sour mood to affect him. ‘And after that, Shrek is on so I’m all sorted up until about four o’clock.’  
Sherlock looks almost traumatised and plunges his hands into his drying curls, a habitual gesture of stress. John could almost swear the man actually whimpers.  
‘Is this what normal people do John?’  
‘Do?’  
‘Yes. Distract themselves from the monotony of their reality by indulging in tedium of a different sort?’  
John smiles. ‘Yes,’ he replies simply. Sherlock groans.  
‘It must be so tedious. I can almost feel my mind stagnating. I mean this...’ he waves a hand in the approximate direction of the telly. ‘It’s just a programme about people going round to perfect stranger’s houses and eating their food. Pointless.’ He seems suddenly struck by something. ‘And what makes it a Christmas special?’  
John shrugs, taking another sip of his tea. ‘I dunno. They’ve added tinsel?’  
‘I cannot believe I’m saying this,’ Sherlock mutters, ‘but I’m actually looking forward the horde turning up. What did you say you’re watching after this?’  
‘Shrek,’ John responds.  
Entirely to his credit, Sherlock refrains from responding, or perhaps he is simply incapable of doing so. Instead he rolls so his face is pressed into the sofa cushions and remains in that position for perhaps twenty minutes when the buzzer sounds and Lestrade appears in the doorway to the living room, closely followed by Mycroft.  
Both are carrying bags and they hover awkwardly in the doorway for a few seconds until John waves them in.  
‘What’s up with Sherlock?’ Lestrade asks, putting his bag down on the floor by the table with a sigh of relief.   
‘He’s sulking,’ John replies calmly, getting up to shake Lestrade’s hand. ‘Good to see you again Lestrade. And you, Mycroft.’  
‘Has he been like that for long?’ Mycroft enquires, nodding his head in his brother’s direction. John sighs.  
‘About twenty minutes.’  
‘Sherlock, it’s really not polite to ignore visitors,’ Mycroft says, walking across the room and jabbing him in the hip with the point of his umbrella. Sherlock sits bolt upright and glares at Mycroft, straightening his jacket as he does so.  
‘I was not ignoring you,’ he replies disdainfully. ‘I said hello.’  
‘Into the sofa,’ John cuts in.  
‘Is it my fault my voice was muffled by the cushions?’  
Mycroft turns away and addresses John, holding the bag he is carrying out in front of him. ‘Where shall I put these presents? Under the tree?’  
‘Oh, yeah... go ahead,’ John says, moving towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’  
‘Love one,’ Lestrade groans, sinking into the seat opposite Sherlock. The detective finishes straightening his clothes and stares resolutely out of the window, seemingly determined to ignore everybody. Lestrade rubs at his eyes and then leans forward, staring at Sherlock.  
‘What’s that on your neck?’ he asks suddenly. Sherlock jumps a little.  
‘What?’  
‘That,’ Lestrade says, pointing at a mark on Sherlock’s pale skin. ‘Looks like someone... bit you or something...’  
John, overhearing the conversation in the kitchen, drops a mug which clatters into the sink. He can feel his cheeks flushing.  
‘It would seem Doctor Watson can get a little... carried away, while in the throes of passion,’ Mycroft says smoothly, twirling his umbrella. Lestrade’s face turns the colour of a tomato. Sherlock turns and sneers at his brother.  
‘Really, Mycroft, for a politician you could have more discretion.’  
‘Am I wrong?’  
‘Tea!’ John calls slightly hysterically from the kitchen, bringing out mugs and handing them out.  
‘Boys? Sorry if I’m interrupting but I’ve got your Christmas presents and John, your sister’s here.’   
‘Oh brilliant, everybody at once... really could you not have spaced it out?’ Sherlock bites out to nobody in particular, scowling at the wall. A small brunette woman appears at Mrs Hudson’s shoulder and makes her way into the room. John puts his mug of tea down on the table and approaches her.  
‘I wasn’t expecting you ‘till later Harry,’ he says, hugging her lightly. Sherlock glances at John’s sister.  
‘Restless night, most likely nightmares. Lonely too. You were planning on getting the two-thirty bus here but changed your mind, most likely this morning, and took the twelve o’clock one instead. Why? Well, you spent the whole morning cleaning your apartment and then found you had nothing else to do and so decided to surprise your brother by coming early.’  
Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade and Mycroft all glare at Sherlock who looks supremely unconcerned and merely leans back on the sofa, flinging one leg over the other. ‘Did I get anything wrong?’  
Harry shakes her head a little, her expression a mixture of admiration and annoyance. Customary for anybody on the receiving end of Sherlock’s deductions.   
‘I take it you’re Sherlock Holmes then,’ she says calmly. ‘I was sure John exaggerated about you but obviously not.’  
Sherlock studies her intently. His previous deduction he did after only taking in her appearance briefly but now he looks properly. Harriet Watson shares quite a few of her brother’s genes. They have the same nose and thin lips. However Harriet’s eyes are green rather than blue and her hair is darker. She is older than John by two years but it looks like more due to her previous battles with alcohol addiction. She is, however, still a very attractive woman and even more interestingly, does not seem to be particularly bothered by Sherlock’s deduction.  
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sherlock announces, his rich, deep voice reverberating around the room. He crosses and extends his hand to her. She takes it and smiles slightly, her eyes sparkling.  
‘You too.’  
John becomes aware that he is watching this exchange with his mouth hanging slightly open and quickly shuts it again. Sherlock and Harry are two of the most volatile personalities in his life at the moment and he’d been expecting fireworks at the very least when they met. And at some point today is also going to have to find a way to tell Harry about his and Sherlock’s changed relationship which he’d been dreading as he was so sure that they’d loathe each other on sight. However it seems as if Harry, similar to himself and Lestrade, is one of those people who doesn’t immediately react negatively to Sherlock. Almost absently he realises that Harry probably doesn’t know anybody and quickly does the introductions.  
‘Harry, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, Mycroft Holmes who is Sherlock’s older brother and Mrs Hudson, our landlady, you’ve met. Everybody, this is my sister Harry.’  
She smiles at each in turn and John fidgets slightly. ‘Did you want a cup of tea? The kettle just boiled...’  
‘Sounds good,’ she replies. ‘So you’re a Consulting Detective, then?’ Harry asks Sherlock as they sit down next to each other while John hurries into the kitchen to make her tea. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it before.’  
‘That’s because I invented the job,’ Sherlock replies slightly smugly. ‘I’m the only one in the world.’  
Harry raises her eyebrows. ‘Really?’ Sherlock looks slightly annoyed, as he always does when other people are being slow.  
‘Yes.’  
‘So... you help the police on their cases?’ She includes Lestrade in this last question who grimaces slightly and takes a deep gulp of his tea.  
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m not on the offical payroll.’  
‘Nor are you ever going to be, I’m afraid,’ Lestrade says wryly. He addresses his next remark to Harry. ‘Sherlock’s incredibly useful in cases we find... difficult to solve...’ Sherlock snorts, ‘... but unfortunately my superiors don’t understand the necessity of reimbursing him for his trouble.’  
Harry’s eyes widen. ‘So, you work for no money? But how do you survive?’  
Sherlock smiles slightly. ‘Oh, I manage. Lestrade is occasionally good enough to send a small amount my way, off the record of course, and my clients usually give me a little something.’  
John scoffs from the kitchen. ‘A little something? Sherlock, one of your clients paid you twenty thousand pounds for a simple matter of working out who was sending him ciphered letters.’ Sherlock smiles reminiscently.  
‘Ahh yes, the Earl of Wessex... that was an interesting one. Somehow they managed to make their way through all the security channels, which in itself was enough to make me take the case. Of course the story will never appear in John’s blog due to tedious confidentiality clauses but...’  
Harry blinks a few times and Lestrade chokes on his tea and turns to gaze at Sherlock.  
‘Sorry, the... the Earl of Wessex?’  
‘Yes, it was all very simple but he was rather worried, poor man. He’d heard about my skills through the grapevine and asked me if I could shed any light on the matter.’  
‘Now, now... enough boasting Sherlock.’  
Sherlock glares at his brother. ‘I am not boasting, Mycroft.’  
‘Yes you are,’ John says, returning from the kitchen with Harry’s tea and smiling at Sherlock fondly. He hands the mug to his sister and settles down in his armchair. ‘You love showing off, it’s what you do.’

XXXXXXXXXX

To Sherlock’s great delight their visitors do not stay long. Lestrade leaves first, but not after promising to call Sherlock on Boxing Day with details of the latest case. It is, as he says, his Christmas present to the detective. He has also bought them what looks suspiciously like a crate of beer, inexpertly wrapped, to place under the tree. Mycroft leaves shortly afterwards, leaving his bag of presents alongside Lestrade’s. He and Sherlock barely talk apart from a muttered Have a good Christmas. John finds time to hand Mycroft his present, managing to avoid Sherlock’s scathing glare as he does so. Harry stays the longest. John is aware that Christmas Day will be hard for her, what with the temptation to drink, and they stay talking on the sofa for awhile. Sherlock takes this opportunity to steal downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s ground-floor apartment.  
Here he has stashed John’s Christmas presents ready for wrapping and he is fully intending to enlist Mrs Hudson’s help as he has grave doubts as to how able he will be to wrap gifts neatly.   
‘Do you think he will like them?’ he asks anxiously, his keen gaze flickering over Mrs Hudson’s kindly face. She smiles at him and takes his hand. He doesn’t flinch away from the contact, as he would do if it was anybody other than her or John.  
‘Of course he will,’ she murmurs. ‘It doesn’t matter what you get him, Sherlock. It matters that you got him something. He’ll love it.’  
Sherlock reflects on that back upstairs in the living room once Harry has finally gone. (Surprisingly he didn’t feel quite as hostile towards her as he would have expected). It is true, he’d never felt the need to buy anybody anything for Christmas before. It had been John’s sudden departure the day after his mother’s party which had made him realise that John had probably remembered he needed to do his Christmas shopping. And that John’s Christmas shopping would probably include buying him a present.  
He could have stayed in the flat. There were several pressing experiments which needed his attention, after all. And The Work is everything. But something made him put on his coat and scarf and venture out into London, in search of the perfect gift for John Watson. He’d ended up getting several. And worried John to death in the process. He hadn’t meant that to happen and had honestly been surprised arriving back, pleased with himself and his efforts at shopping, only to have John shout at him.  
Now the presents are wrapped and he only needs to rouse himself before John in the morning, run down to collect them and place them under the tree. He’s already seen the small pile of gifts addressed to him from John, collected haphazardly next to Lestrade, Mycroft and Harry’s presents. And as the afternoon progresses it is clear that John believes Sherlock has not bothered to get him anything.  
They curl up together on the sofa, Sherlock for once bending without protest to John’s desire to watch ‘Christmas Telly’. However his alert mind notices immediately when a slight spasm of something crosses John’s face and it is always when his eyes fall on the small pile of presents under the tree.   
John is so open and so easy to read that Sherlock can often tell exactly what he is thinking just by examining his expressions. He knows that John is feeling slightly hurt that Sherlock hasn’t got him anything and embarrassed and ashamed that he feels that way. He can almost hear John persuading himself that he shouldn’t expect presents at Christmas, that that is not what it is about. But he can also sense the tiny part of John which is saying that he must not mean a lot to Sherlock if he cannot even be bothered to get him even something small like a card. Sherlock doesn’t particularly like the fact that he is causing John pain which he knows he will be able to alleviate simply by going down to Mrs Hudson’s now and retrieving the presents. However, unacquainted as he is with such things, he is rather of the impression that that would ruin the element of surprise which he is attempting to cultivate. He wants to give John a nice surprise on Christmas Day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

At about eleven o’clock in the evening John’s eyelids grow heavy and he finds himself battling to keep his eyes on the telly, currently showing some inane film he isn’t really paying attention to. For the past hour or so he has been quietly aware of Sherlock’s body curled up next to him, his head on John’s shoulder and one leg flung over John’s lap. John occupies himself with tangling his hand in Sherlock’s hair and occasionally pressing a kiss to his lips or forehead.  
He yawns and slowly, reluctantly shifts himself and stands up, holding out a hand to Sherlock as he does so.  
‘Bed? I’m knackered.’  
‘Of course, John,’ Sherlock replies, getting up gracefully and moving to turn off the lights in the living room. John gazes at the Christmas tree as the flickering bulbs die and tries to stop himself looking at the presents beneath it. He has presents from Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Harry, even Mrs Holmes... but nothing from the one person who really matters to him. There is nothing from Sherlock. Not for the first time that evening he vainly attempts to stop such selfish thoughts. He knows the detective. He knows his boyfriend. He knows Sherlock. And Sherlock doesn’t buy presents... and that is the end of it. He is stupid to be taking it so personally.  
They get ready for bed and eventually John collapses between the sheets, nuzzling up to Sherlock as the detective slides in next to him.  
‘Happy Christmas Eve, Sherlock,’ he murmurs, kissing softly at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He feels the lips beneath his twitch upwards into a smile.  
‘You do know it’s ridiculous to wish happiness on specific days of the year, don’t you, John?’ He feels Sherlock’s voice as a deep rumble through his lips and chest and sighs happily. ‘You might as well wake me up next week and say, “Happy Thursday”.’  
‘Shut up,’ John murmurs sleepily. ‘See you tomorrow.’  
‘Mmm,’ Sherlock replies indistinctly. ‘If you can make tomorrow in any way bearable for me then I might be forced to consider the possiblity that you have superhuman powers.’  
He feels John smirk against him. ‘No pressure then. And anyway, I already have superhuman powers.’  
Sherlock frowns slightly. ‘You most certainly do not.’  
John huffs a laugh. ‘If I remember correctly I made Sherlock Holmes decorate an apartment for Christmas and even wear tinsel as a belt.’  
Sherlock, although he remains resolutely and stubbornly silent, has to consider the fact that John Watson may have a point.


	25. Christmas Day

Chapter Twenty-Five

Christmas Day

Sherlock does indeed wake up before John. Unsurprising really, as when he checks the alarm clock it is half past six and he knows John enjoys his lie-ins.  
He drops a quick kiss on John’s forehead, gets out of bed, shrugs his long body into his dressing gown and pads downstairs. The apartment is cold and the air ices his skin, raising goosebumps and making him shiver. He turns up the heating, knowing that John will appreciate not waking to freezing cold, and wanders over to the windows, drawing one of the curtains slightly. He blinks.  
It has snowed. Overnight it has snowed and heavily. The familiar sight of Baker Street has disappeared under a perfect blanket of white. Even now flakes are drifting down from the cloudy grey sky, adding to the number already on the ground. Sherlock doesn’t usually care for snow. It impedes travel, the whole of Britain grinds to a halt as if every year they are completely unprepared for the possibility of this kind of weather and organisation generally gets messy. He snorts as he imagines John’s face when he sees it. John is one of those people who will probably get very excited at the fact that it has snowed on Christmas Day.  
Swiftly he makes his way downstairs and taps on Mrs Hudson’s door. There is no answer. He knocks again and waits for a few seconds, leaning his ear slightly against the wood to see if he can hear any sound of movement from within. There is nothing. He huffs in exasperation and raps loudly and continually for about ten seconds until he hears a shuffling noise and steps back, pasting a broad smile onto his face.  
The door creaks open and Mrs Hudson’s tired and bewildered face peers out from around the crack.   
‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson!’ Sherlock proclaims loudly with what he hopes is the correct amount of cheeriness. His smile disappears as she scowls at him.  
‘Sherlock... do you have any idea what time it is?’  
Ridiculous question. ‘Twenty-two minutes to seven,’ he replies promptly. ‘I’ve come to collect John’s presents – I need to do it early so he can be surprised when he sees them under the tree.’  
The door opens wider and Mrs Hudson is revealed fully. She is clad in a faded purple towelled dressing gown, tattered pink carpet slippers are on her feet and her usually fly-away hair is even more dishevelled than usual. Something occurs to Sherlock.  
‘I’m... sorry if I woke you,’ he announces hesitantly. Perhaps knocking on his landlady’s door at twenty to seven in the morning on Christmas Day is something which John would pronounce as being a little not good.   
Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline but presumably she decides not to dignify this with a response. Instead she waves a hand tiredly to invite Sherlock inside. He steps in and closes the door softly behind him, watching Mrs Hudson shuffle off down the hallway. She waves a hand over her shoulder in the direction of her living room.  
‘Your presents are in the bag in there,’ she mutters tiredly. ‘I’m going back to bed and I’ll see you and John at a more respectable hour. You can let yourself out can’t you?’  
Yes, definitely a little not good Sherlock muses as she disappears into what is presumably her bedroom. He snatches up the bag from the living room and lets himself out of the apartment quietly.  
Back in the living room John is still not up. Sherlock doesn’t expect him to wake until at least nine o’clock so he has at least two hours to kill. He spends five minutes of that time placing John’s gifts under the tree and checking on the various experiments littered around the kitchen, but all of them are progressing well and do not require any further attention for the meantime. Idly he picks a thick book and attempts to lose himself with the study of serial murderers in the last century. After a few pages he throws the volume down to the floor with a huff of irritation.  
‘Incompetent,’ he mutters to himself, glaring at the author’s name. The book is a new one given to him a few months ago by Mycroft but he hadn’t bothered to read it until now. It is clear to him, however, that the author of this novel hasn’t really the faintest idea of the subject, preferring to blunder through the first few pages with sensationalist language and wild theories. A bit like John’s blog, now he comes to think about it. Perhaps he should lend the book to him.  
Sherlock shifts about on the sofa for a few more minutes and even debates switching on the television. He allows this idea to linger in his mind for exactly two seconds and then physically jerks his head, sending it flying out of his mind. He will never be that bored. Watching mindless, rubbish telly is okay with John (if he’s honest it is more than okay, but he will never let on) but by himself it would just be tedious.  
So he finds himself tramping back up the stairs and into their bedroom. He removes his dressing gown, hangs it up, and slides back between the covers. As the mattress dips due to his weight, John, seemingly unconsciously sensing him back in bed, reaches out and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s hips, pulling him back into his chest. Sherlock huffs with contentment and wiggles around a little against John’s body. This ‘spooning’ is really very comfortable he says to himself, shuffling around a little more. I wonder what it is about the way the bodies fit together in this position which makes it so enjoyable? Just as Sherlock’s agile mind sets itself to work in examining angles and certain placements of limbs, something happens which is enough to send his thoughts careering along a completely different, yet not unwelcome, track.   
John’s cock, apparently reacting with interest to Sherlock’s continued wriggling against it, stirs and twitches. Sherlock can feel it hardening slowly but steadily against him. His lips quirk upwards in a sinful smirk, laced with a healthy dose of desire. His brain abandons the problem of the logistics of spooning and instead focuses on what exactly John’s reaction will be if Sherlock very slowly starts rubbing himself up and down against John’s still hardening erection. The movement is purposeful and sensuous and feeling John’s arousal pressing against his buttocks means that Sherlock is aware of a stirring in his own pyjama trousers. He can hear John’s breathing, previously slow and steady with sleep, coming harsher and faster from behind him, but upon twisting his head on the pillow to glance at John’s face, the other man is clearly still asleep, although a deep flush has suffused his cheeks.  
Sherlock rolls so that he is facing John and reaches out a hand to stroke John’s hair back from his forehead. The doctor subconsciously pushes into the touch and in doing so his hips jerk into Sherlock’s. The detective groans as their erections meet.  
‘John,’ he murmurs throatily, his hand still in the doctor’s short blonde hair. ‘John, wake up.’ He shuffles forward a little more and presses a kiss to John’s mouth. ‘Time to wake up.’ This is a blatant lie and no doubt John would castrate him if he knew what hour it actually is. He feels John’s lips move beneath his and soon enough John is kissing him back, albeit sleepily.  
‘Mmm... Sherlock?’  
‘You have to wake up, John. I have a rather pressing... problem. I need a doctor.’ Inwardly he cringes at the line – somehow his boyfriend has a strange habit of reducing his intelligence to absolute mush. He cannot be blamed for it. Further making his point he rolls his hips forward once more and John’s blue eyes widen slightly and then he smiles as he connects Sherlock’s statement and his ensuing action.  
‘God, Sherlock,’ he groans. ‘That line is awful.’  
‘Well, all the blood from my brain has been diverted,’ Sherlock huffs wriggling even closer to the doctor so they are pressed flush against each other. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t take a genius or a doctor to work out where it went.’  
John smirks and slides his hands underneath the loose t-shirt Sherlock wears to bed, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the soft skin at the detective’s waist, gradually moving up until his thumbs hit Sherlock’s nipples. His smirk growing wider John circles the small buds torturously slowly, rolling them between his fingers, pinching occasionally until they grow harder.  
Sherlock is breathing heavily, the pale pink flush on his cheeks almost matching that on John’s.   
‘Off,’ John breathes, tugging at the shirt lightly to emphasise his point. Sherlock hastens to comply, drawing the material swiftly over his head, rumpling his curls. Once his torso is bared, John wastes no time in bending his mouth over those delectable dark pink nipples, laving his tongue around and around. Sherlock presses his head further into the pillow and his back arches slightly. When John bites down on one of them he hisses.  
‘John.’  
John’s right hand has been running gently up and down the detective’s side, loving the feeling of the muscles twitching under his touch as he lavishes attention on Sherlock’s nipples. Now both his hands travel downward, to the appealing ‘V’ made by the contours of Sherlock’s sharp hipbones, just peeking out from under the taut pale skin. Knowing how sensitive Sherlock is at that spot, John spends a few seconds rubbing gently, smiling when he hears the detective take in several sharp, choppy breaths above him.  
John’s mouth follows his hands and soon he is pressing light kisses to Sherlock’s stomach  
and hips. Tantalizingly slowly he draws the silken pyjama bottoms down, allowing   
Sherlock’s now fully erect cock to spring free. His dark blue eyes gleam as he passes by it, instead nipping and sucking at the detective’s smooth inner thighs. Sherlock squirms and writhes on the bed, his hands fly to John’s shoulders.  
‘John, stop messing around,’ he growls harshly.  
John raises his head and grins at him.and reaches up to tweak a nipple before he nips once more at Sherlock’s inner thigh, swirling his tongue around the small mark immediately afterwards.  
‘Only if you ask me nicely,’ he murmurs, trying desperately to ignore his own pressing arousal. Sherlock groans and arches his hips up off the mattress.  
‘John... do something... please.’  
For a few moments John contemplates drawing it out a little longer. But then, Sherlock so rarely says please, and besides the detective’s long, slender cock looks so appealing right now with little drops of precome on the head. He takes pity and without any further words sinks his mouth down, taking Sherlock in fully.  
The detective’s fingers latch into John’s hair and tug sharply as the delicious pleasure sparks through his body. John hollows his cheeks and sucks like he cannot ever get enough, occasionally swiping his tongue around the shaft.  
‘John, God, John...’ His name issues from Sherlock’s mouth like a stream of consciousness and the deep rich baritone texture of his voice makes John’s cock even harder, something he hadn’t thought possible.  
He withdraws his mouth and continues pumping Sherlock gently with one hand as he leans up and kisses the detective full on the mouth. Sherlock groans as he tastes himself on John’s tongue and he clutches at the doctor hard, bringing their bodies once again into alignment. His long, slender fingers trace at John’s broad, muscled back and sliding his hands down he smoothly removes the doctor’s boxers. John obligingly kicks them off, not breaking his assault on Sherlock’s mouth, nor his continued attentions to Sherlock’s erection.  
‘My turn, I believe,’ Sherlock breathes and flips them over, effectively dislodging John’s contact with his mouth. He balances himself on his forearms, now placed on either side of the doctor’s sandy head, and stares down at the man he has adored from afar for so long. Those deep blue eyes sparkle with laughter, barely concealed lust and... something else. There is something shining back at him which, without more data he is loath to define, but he thinks it might be – love. It is such a powerful thing that his heart clenches. How is it that he, a man who has thought himself an automaton, a robot, for so long, how is it that he can be so blessed to have the love of someone like John Watson? Somebody who has fought for his country, saved lives whilst in danger of his own, actually been shot while carrying a young soldier to safety?  
John’s hand against his cheek brings him back to his senses.  
‘Anything the matter? Only when I’m in bed with someone I’m not exactly used to having them gaze vacantly at me.’ He grins. Sherlock does not.  
‘I love you,’ he murmurs, thrusting his erection against John’s. ‘I love you, John Watson.’  
John groans with pleasure and his previous statement suddenly filters through to Sherlock’s brain. ‘You’d better get used to a vacant stare anytime I feel like it,’ he growls, now thrusting and rutting roughly against John, causing the older man to whine at the sensations coursing rapidly through his torso, ‘because I’ll be the only person in bed with you from now on Doctor Watson. Understood?’  
John gasps as Sherlock bites and tongues at one of his nipples. He arches off the bed and grabs wildly at the detective’s curls.  
‘Yes, oh God, yes Sherlock... just...’  
‘Say you’re mine,’ Sherlock growls, reaching down between their bodies to grasp John’s now throbbing cock.  
‘I’m yours, for Christ’s sake, I’m yours! Now just hurry up and fuck me!’  
Sherlock raises his head from John’s nipple in astonishment. His hand freezes its movements on John’s erection. His luminous grey eyes are wide and shocked. John turns his face away from Sherlock’s stare. He hadn’t meant that to come out. But now that he’s said it, he realises he has never meant anything more.  
‘Do you mean that, John?’ Sherlock asks softly, in his gentlest tone of voice. He realises what a big deal this must be for the doctor. Yes, he’d been a virgin, but he’d at least always known he was attracted to men and was prepared for what sex would involve for him. John, however, has been rather thrust into the deep end and although it is clear to see he is just as interested in Sherlock as Sherlock is in him, it must still be something altogether for John to concede the power and allow Sherlock to... for lack of a better word... penetrate him.  
John doesn’t reply audibly, instead he nods against the pillow. Sherlock reaches out and turns his head so that once again their gazes are locked.   
‘John. I need you to answer... out loud. Are you sure about this?’  
The doctor meets his gaze and Sherlock is once again astounded by the beauty of John’s eyes.   
‘Yes.’ His voice is slightly hoarse, and Sherlock detects a slight tremor, but there is no disputing the honesty of his answer.  
Under his hand John has softened slightly, no doubt due to the serious turn the conversation has taken but by contrast, Sherlock has never been harder. He doubts it is possible for him to lose enthusiasm now, not when he keeps replaying those words in his head.  
‘... hurry up and fuck me!’  
Gradually he resumes his strokes, starting off slow and steady but soon he builds up the pace. Once again he lavishes attention on John’s torso, paying particular study to each nipple. Within a few seconds he feels John hardening.  
Sherlock feels the responsiblity he has assumed settle on him and he kisses his way down his doctor’s body until he reaches John’s now leaking erection.   
‘Gorgeous,’ he murmurs as he wraps his full lips around it and licks up and down the shaft, revelling in the taste of John. He can feel John’s thigh muscles clenching and relaxing as pleasure shoots through John’s body.  
Briefly he removes his mouth from the doctor’s arousal and slips his fingers into his mouth, soaking them with as much of his saliva as he can. Anything to make this easy and pleasurable for John.  
Slowly he moves a finger to John’s entrance and circles, putting a little pressure here and there, but not quite slipping in. John groans and twitches.  
‘Come on, Sherlock. Do it.’  
Slowly Sherlock slides his finger into John’s tight heat and hears the older man hiss slightly as he does so. He pauses and then pushes further in, murmuring to John as he does so.  
‘Just breathe, John. Breathe.’  
‘It’s okay, I’m alright Sherlock. Keep going.’ Sherlock can feel John’s muscles relax around his finger and gradually he introduces a second one.   
‘I’m going to make this so good for you,’ he whispers throatily, starting to stretch John a little. Glancing up he notices that John is frowning and beads of sweat have started to stand out along his hairline. His erection is also noticably softening again.  
Keeping his fingers inside John, frankly he doesn’t want to withdraw out of that amazing tightness, Sherlock reaches his other hand upwards to gently start stroking John again.  
‘Do you trust me John?’ he murmurs.   
‘Of course,’ John pants out.   
‘Then just relax. This is me, John. And you feel... so good,’ he accompanies this assertion by wriggling his fingers a little until they press against something. John’s eyes blow wide. Of course he knows about the prostate, but never, never, did he think it would feel like this.  
‘Oh Christ,’ he groans, his eyes drifting shut. ‘Do that again. Please.’  
Sherlock smirks, never ceasing his strokes on John’s cock, now rapidly hardening again. ‘You mean this?’ He crooks his fingers once more and John cries aloud with pleasure and attempts to press himself down on Sherlock’s fingers.   
‘Yes that – right there, Sherlock.’ John writhes on the sheets as Sherlock teases him, stretches him wide but distracts him at the same time with little nudges against his prostate. After a couple of minutes he introduces a third finger and almost comes at the sight of it disappearing to join the others inside John, with only a token amount of resistance now from the tight ring of muscle. John, by this point, seems almost incapable of forming a coherent sentence and all he can do is pant out Sherlock’s name.   
‘I’m ready,’ John gasps suddenly, as Sherlock’s clever fingers once more brush against his prostate. ‘I – I can’t wait any longer, I...’  
Sherlock takes pity and gently withdraws his fingers, his eyes wide as he watches John’s hole, now stretched and wide open, twitch at the loss. Scrabbling at the bedside drawer, Sherlock removes a condom and discovers a forgotten bottle of lube. His hands shaking he slips the condom onto himself and slathers a decent amount of lubrication over it.  
‘You are amazing,’ Sherlock whispers, lining up his now painfully hard erection. Slowly he enters his doctor, watches as the head of his cock gradually pushes past the ring of muscle. John whines and clutches at the sheets. Sherlock halts and glances anxiously at his face which is screwed up in a frown.  
‘John? Should I...?’  
‘Keep going,’ John mutters harshly. ‘For God’s sake, keep going!’  
He is so tight, so warm, and the feeling is all-encompassing. Sherlock pushes in slowly, feeling himself sinking right to the hilt into John’s body. When he is fully sheathed he pauses and waits for John to relax his muscles, which he does after a couple of seconds.   
‘God, John...’ Sherlock gasps as he withdraws slowly and then drives back in. John groans and Sherlock begins to set a rhythm, starting off slow at first and then as John’s exclamations become those of pleasure, not pain, he begins to thrust more forcefully until he feels the head of his cock hit that certain place inside John and the doctor arches up sharply from the mattress of the bed, his spine bending so much it almost looks as though he is going to snap in two.  
‘Jesus, Sherlock...’ he gasps, his eyes fluttering wildly. His hands claw at the detective’s back, bringing him closer, driving Sherlock deeper into his body. The muscles in Sherlock’s pale forearms are corded as they start to throb with the strain of holding his body above John’s and the thrusts as he brings John closer to the edge.  
One of the doctor’s hands moves from Sherlock’s back and John starts stroking and tugging at his aching erection, his head thrashes from side to side on the pillow as that sweet coil begins to build in his belly.  
Sherlock can feel the muscles start to clench around him and the sensation pushes him ever closer.  
‘John... I’m close,’ he manages to gasp, his punishing thrusts becoming more and more erratic, although he still hits John’s prostate with every drive. John nods wildly.  
‘Yes, yes Sherlock... God... me too...’  
It only takes Sherlock three more pushes before John spasms around his cock. The doctor shouts out loudly and screws his eyes shut as his orgasm hits him. Sherlock manages one more thrust before the sensations are too much for him and he almost sobs with the force of his explosion.  
They collapse together, sticky and sated. Sherlock pulls out with a slight hiss and slumps next to John, one arm thrown across his chest. John remains on his back, panting, his deep blue eyes wide.  
‘That was incredible,’ John murmurs shakily after a few seconds. Sherlock nods and rolls his eyes. ‘You’re definitely a quick learner.’  
‘The various components involved in a successful sexual encounter are not that difficult to acquire, John,’ Sherlock drawls, only the slightest tremor in his tone betraying his emotion. ‘It is simply a matter of biology.’ Shakily he slips off the condom, knots it, and tosses it in the direction of the wastepaper basket.  
John grins and hauls himself off the bed. ‘Not to mention chemistry,’ he quips and reaches for new boxers. ‘I’m going to take a shower. What time is it anyway?’  
Sherlock winces slightly and reaches for his watch. ‘Just gone half-past-seven,’ he mutters almost inaudibly. John’s eyes widen and and his hand clenches on the boxers he is holding.  
‘Half-past-seven?’ he repeats. Sherlock nods and busies himself with looking elsewhere. ‘Jesus... half-past-seven? In the morning? It’s Christmas Day, Sherlock! I should be asleep! Everybody apart from small children and their parents should be asleep at this time on Christmas Day!’  
‘I didn’t mean to wake you, John, but I was bored. And besides, you started it,’ Sherlock retorts slightly sulkily.   
‘What do you mean, I started it? I was asleep!’  
‘Most of you, perhaps, but there was definitely one bit of your anatomy which was very pleased when I came back to bed. It seemed kinder to deal with it immediately.’  
John shakes his head, half in annoyance and half in amusement. ‘Fine. Whatever. I’m going for my shower. You are going to clean yourself up and make me a cup of tea to apologise.’ His tone of voice brooks no argument and the detective merely shrugs and nods. John moves to the door and then throws something back over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and for your future awareness... if you wake me up to have sex everytime I have morning wood I will end up killing you. Just a warning.’  
‘I think you’re overreacting a little, John,’ Sherlock drawls, but gets up and reaches for the tissues. John opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to change his mind and goes for his shower, laughing to himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock has dressed and has a mug of tea waiting on the living-room table for John by the time the doctor makes it downstairs, freshly showered and dressed in his favourite dark-blue cable-knit jumper, a pair of smart stone-washed jeans and thick black socks.  
Sherlock gestures towards the mug and wonders absently how long it will take John to notice the extra presents under the tree. He would have noticed them immediately of course, but then, as everybody knows, Sherlock Holmes notices everything. It seems that his boyfriend only has eyes for the tea at the moment, as he passes by the Christmas tree without even glancing at it and collapses into his chair, cradling his mug in his hands.  
‘Happy Christmas, Sherlock,’ he murmurs, smiling at the detective.   
‘I think I can say that in all honesty this will be the best Christmas I’ve ever had... no family and no Mycroft to annoy me. Just you and Mrs Hudson.’  
John grins at him almost pityingly at takes a deep swallow of his drink. ‘It’s good tea,’ he comments.  
‘Always surprised. Why are you always surprised?’ Sherlock gazes at John for a second and then smiles. ‘Just one question, John... do you think you have a problem?’  
John frowns as he thinks about this. ‘A problem? Erm... no, why? Do I?’ It is a mark of how much he has come to trust Sherlock’s observation skills that he even thinks there is a possibility that Sherlock has noticed there is something wrong with him that he hasn’t even seen himself.  
‘It’s just you drink an awful lot of tea. What do you go through, ten mugs a day? At least?’ Sherlock’s tone is almost serious but there is a sparkle in his grey eyes and a twitch around his lips that lets John know he is joking. John clutches his mug tighter to his chest and narrows his eyes at his boyfriend.  
‘You can never, never drink enough tea. It’s just not possible.’  
Sherlock throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Fine. Fine. Just... wondering.’ He throws another wry smile at John and stretches back on the sofa. ‘So – what’s the protocol for today? I know that the basic activities performed on Christmas Day are present-unwrapping, eating and watching mindless, inane television.’  
John nods. ‘Yup. Sounds about right to me. I’m going to put the turkey joint in the oven soon. I’m aiming to have it ready for about two o’clock and Mrs Hudson will join us for lunch and the Queen’s Speech. Then I thought we could do presents? How about that?’  
Sherlock shrugs. ‘Whatever you want, John. I would have thought you’d have wanted to have a snowball fight or something equally as ridiculous.’  
John laughs. ‘Well, that sounds like fun, but there’s just one tiny flaw...’  
‘And what’s that?’ Sherlock drawls.  
‘Well, to have a snowball fight you actually need to have snow.’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, wondering once again if ordinary people really are this unobservant all the time. Not only has John failed to notice the extra gifts under the tree, he apparently hasn’t even bothered to look out of the window.  
‘Oh, yes, of course... what was I thinking?’ he murmurs sarcastically and throws an arm in the direction of the large living-room windows, still half-covered by the curtains.  
‘You want me to draw the curtains?’ John asks, a little confused.  
‘If you would,’ Sherlock mutters.  
Still quite puzzled, John gets up and makes his way over the window. As he pulls the curtain back he gasps. ‘It’s snowing!’  
Sherlock thumps his head against the cushion of the sofa a couple of times. ‘Excellent observation, John. Really, I am so pleased to see that living with me has taught you so much.’  
Like so many of Sherlock’s acidic comments this just rolls of John’s back and he turns to his boyfriend with a blinding grin.  
‘It never snows at Christmas! This is brilliant!’  
‘I’m glad you think so.’  
‘Oh let me guess. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t like snow.’  
Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and glares over at John. ‘Correct.’  
‘Well, we’ll have to change that won’t we?’  
The slender detective frowns. ‘What?’  
‘I thought you mentioned something about a snowball fight?’ John grin is devilish as he makes his way over to where Sherlock is sitting. Sherlock leans back, waving one finger in the air decisively.  
‘No, John. Absolutely no way. There is no fathomable way you are getting me out in the street at this time on Christmas Day to partake in a snowball fight of all things. It’s not happening. Now sit back down and drink your tea.’

Five Minutes Later

‘Come on, Sherlock – you’ll enjoy it once you get into it!’ John cajoles from his position just under the awning of Speedy’s Café. Sherlock, standing awkwardly with his hands in fists at his sides, hovers near the doorway of 221 Baker Street as if he is going to make a dash for cover at any moment.  
‘I want it to be known that I’m only here under duress,’ Sherlock proclaims loudly, his posture still tense. ‘It’s hardly fair to threaten no sex for a month just because I don’t want to have a snowball fight, John,’ he complains in a lower tone. ‘And that threat about burning my experiments was just plain evil.’  
‘When you’re with Sherlock Holmes you learn to fight dirty,’ John counters, a casual grin lighting his handsome face. ‘Come on!’  
‘But I don’t even know how... the advantage is all on your side,’ Sherlock complains, trying desperately to think of something to get him out of this.  
‘It’s very simple. You’re a genius, you should pick it up in no time. You pick up a handful of snow...’ John bends and demonstrates as if talking to a very slow toddler, ‘... then you mash it into a ball in the palms of your hands...’ he does so, again very slowly and Sherlock rolls his eyes, ‘... and then – you throw it.’   
The snowball catches Sherlock unawares and bursts against his collarbone, scattering tiny chips of snow and ice down the collar of his coat and making him gasp. Frantically he brushes at the flakes of white still littering the wool and the curls of his hair while John bends over, gasping with laughter.  
‘That was hardly fair, John. I wasn’t ready.’  
John manages to straighten up and calm himself enough to reply. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You get a free shot at me and then we’ll begin. Alright?’  
Sherlock sniffs and bends over, scooping up a sizeable amount of snow with an expression of deep disdain on his face. Slowly he smooths it into a ball, making sure to pack it tight. John shifts from one foot to the other impatiently.  
‘Take your time, by all means,’ he calls. Sherlock continues shaping the snow carefully.  
‘You said I had a free shot, I’ve got all the time in the world.’  
Finally he is happy and tosses it from hand to hand a few times, testing the weight and shape. Looking up he takes aim, at John’s uninjured shoulder, and lets fly. John attempts to dodge out of the way but Sherlock has anticipated this and the snowball hits him hard in the shoulder. The force of the throw and the weight of the tightly packed snow means that John stumbles back a little with the impact.  
‘Okay, no more free shots,’ John calls, rubbing his shoulder. ‘Jesus, that one was like a cannonball! You know it is supposed to be fun, just a game.’  
‘You should know I take games very seriously,’ Sherlock responds, a small smile on his lips, although he does look a little guilty when he sees that John is still rubbing his shoulder. There is a small twist of pain on John’s features and Sherlock frowns, a little anxiously, moving closer to his boyfriend.  
‘John? Are you alright? It didn’t really hurt you did it...’  
Without warning John has darted forwards, scooped up a handful of snow and mashing it together quickly, launches it at Sherlock’s worried face. The detective’s reactions are quick enough for him to turn slightly to the left, but the snow still hits him in the middle of his cheek. The sharp cold is biting on his skin and he brushes frantically.  
‘Right.’ The single word comes out roughly and John grins.   
They spend the next ten minutes dodging and weaving around each other, some throws finding their target, others going spectacularly wide and assaulting various windows or doorways. It is hard to know who wins as both are equally covered in snow by the time John calls a halt. The doctor smiles warmly as he takes in the sight of his boyfriend. Sherlock’s calm and icy demeanour have disappeared completely for the moment, a bright smile is on his lips and his dark curls are sodden and pulled almost straight from the melting snow. His pale cheeks are flushed with pink and the tip of his nose has turned red from the cold. He had started the game impeccably dressed as always and John is pleased to see that not even Sherlock can retain his dignity after a snowball fight. The dark blue scarf is skewed to the side and half undone and his long black coat is ruffled and marked with patches of snow and dirt from the pavement.  
‘Truce?’ John calls eventually, holding his hands up. Sherlock sighs and nods.  
‘Truce.’ He holds out his hand and John takes it. Swiftly Sherlock brings his other hand down on the top of John’s head, rubbing the handful of snow he’d secreted in his palm through the short strands of blonde, grey hair. John shouts aloud and pushes at Sherlock’s chest.  
‘Payback,’ Sherlock smirks, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders and pulling the smaller man into his side as they walk back to the door of 221, ‘for pretending I’d hurt you at the beginning.’  
‘Fair enough,’ John remarks smiling, tousling his hair with the hand that isn’t wedged between their bodies to empty the strands of snow. ‘I vote we get warmed up and I’ll start the turkey off. Don’t forget you promised to help me.’  
‘Don’t worry John, I hadn’t forgotten. I am quite certain that I will be superb at cooking, it is simply a matter of logistics and timing after all.’  
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

‘Sherlock! How in hell did you manage to do that? I gave you specific instructions... it’s not even that hard!’  
John can’t help laughing as he takes in the doleful expression on Sherlock’s face as the detective peers down at the bowl on the counter.  
‘I don’t know what happened, John... perhaps there were too many cranberries in it?’ John twirls a spoon between his fingers before tapping experimentally at the sauce once more. It hasn’t softened a bit, the metal surface of the spoon bounces right back off it.  
‘There is no way too many cranberries could have done this,’ John remarks absently, now banging the spoon off the sauce with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Oh well. Luckily I have some ready-made in the fridge.’  
Sherlock turns to stare at him. ‘You’ve got what?’  
‘Ready-made sauce. I thought it best to be prepared if you were in charge of it. Seems like I was right to be cautious.’  
‘I find your lack of faith in me deeply disturbing,’ Sherlock huffs as John gets the new cranberry sauce out of the fridge, niftily avoiding the tub of severed ears which are apparently the focal point of Sherlock’s latest pressing experiment.  
‘Oh, I have plenty of faith in you when we’re at a crime scene. Bizarre murder committed, no clues to be found, Sherlock’s the man for the job, most definitely. But cranberry sauce and domestic arrangements... no, no trust at all.’  
Sherlock has no answer for this and so scowls deeply and moves back to the sofa. He collapses onto it and the springs creak and grate in protest.   
‘If I’m that much of a hindrance I shall simply remain here until the food is prepared,’ he announces.   
‘You do that. D’you want a sherry or port or something?’  
‘You know I don’t drink.’  
‘Yes, but it’s Christmas. Besides, you drank mulled wine a couple of days ago, didn’t you?’  
Eventually Sherlock agrees that a very small glass of port might be nice and John hands it to him with a smile.  
The doctor fusses around in the kitchen while Sherlock lounges on the sofa and amuses himself by watching him. He likes the way John bites his lip or sticks out his tongue when he’s concentrating very hard, he notices the way he drums his fingertips on the counter whenever he’s waiting for something to come to the boil on the stove. But most of all he loves those quick little glances John throws in his direction, always accompanied by an affectionate smile or quirk of an eyebrow. He likes the fact that even when occupied with something else, John still makes time for him.  
And that also makes him feel slightly guilty. How often does he do that when on a crime scene with John? Does he make John feel as valued as the doctor is doing now with him? Even when he isn’t helping, just lying on the sofa sulking? Or does he treat John as a mere accessory when he’s observing and deducing?  
Unable to bear these thoughts any longer, Sherlock gets up from the sofa and stalks into the kitchen, moving up behind John who is standing stirring a sauce on the stove, and wraps his arms tightly around John’s waist.  
‘I do value you,’ he murmurs into John’s ear. The shorter man tips his head back slightly against Sherlock’s shoulder, absently stirring the sauce still.  
‘What? What’s brought all this on?’  
‘I just want you to know. No reason.’  
John is clearly puzzled but accepts this as part and parcel of living with the detective. ‘Okay, well. Thank you.’ He tilts his head to the side and presses a kiss against Sherlock’s jaw before pulling away slightly to resume cooking. Sherlock returns to the living room and takes a sip of his port.   
‘Boys? Are you decent?’  
Mrs Hudson’s face peers round the door to their living room. John barks a laugh from the kitchen. ‘Of course we’re decent Mrs H! Come on in, lunch is almost ready. Do you want a drink? Port, sherry, wine, beer...’ John trails off and Mrs Hudson laughs, seating herself primly on the sofa.  
‘Oh, just a small sherry for me please, dear.’  
‘Right you are.’ John takes a break from his final preparations to pour her drink and hand it over.  
‘So, how are you enjoying your Christmas so far, boys?’ Mrs Hudson enquires, taking a sip of her sherry. John grins at Sherlock.  
‘Oh, it’s been great fun. We had a snowball fight and then Sherlock managed to make the cranberry sauce as solid as a brick.’  
‘Really, John? Must you keep bringing that up?’  
But his boyfriend, obviously attempting to keep the laughter smothered, has brought over the bowl and a spoon for Mrs Hudson to see. Their landlady takes the small implement and tentatively brings it down a few times, only to find that it reverberates off the top of the reddish/brown mixture with a satisfying thunk.  
‘Oh, Sherlock,’ she wails in a mixture of amusement and despair, ‘it’s cranberry sauce. I didn’t think even you could mess up that.’  
Sherlock twists away from her on the sofa and folds his arms, drawing his knees up to his chest. ‘Well, when you’re both finished mocking me, please do let me know. I shall endeavour to do something else to amuse you.’  
John smiles slightly and crosses over to his boyfriend, sinks to his knees and wraps an arm around his shoulders.  
‘Okay, I promise that’s it. The cranberry sauce shall not be mentioned again. Alright?’  
Sherlock is still scowling but nods his head ever so slightly.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Christmas lunch goes off without a hitch. Mrs Hudson and John manage to persuade Sherlock to pull crackers and laugh at how incensed he is at his little gift.  
‘A miniature plastic golf tee? How on earth is this supposed to be useful to anyone? Even if I played golf, this is far too small to actually use.’  
John offers to swap, but Sherlock decides his plastic frog is even more useless than the tee. The food is pronounced a success and the detective manages to finish an entire plateful, much to the surprise of John and Mrs Hudson.  
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat that much in one go,’ John says in a slightly awed tone, watching as Sherlock spears a parsnip with his fork and runs it around the plate gathering up gravy.  
‘I thought this is what normal people do on Christmas Day,’ Sherlock says casually. ‘They eat amounts of food which far exceed their usual daily intake.’  
John smiles, pleased that Sherlock is doing something to make him happy and he can’t deny that it does him good to see the detective eat a proper meal.   
Mrs Hudson stays to watch the Queen’s Speech with them and very obviously enjoys it, while Sherlock has to stop himself from screaming at the television. Once it has finished Mrs Hudson heaves herself up from the sofa.  
‘Well boys, I’ll leave you to your present opening.’  
John glances up. ‘You’re more than welcome to stay, Mrs Hudson.’ He ignores Sherlock’s glare which he can feel burning the side of his face. Their landlady smiles.  
‘Oh, bless you dear, but I’ll be heading off all the same. My sister always rings after the Queen’s speech – it’s a little tradition we have.’  
‘Well then, goodbye Mrs Hudson, thanks for popping round,’ Sherlock calls, waving a hand absently in the air. John rolls his eyes and sees Mrs Hudson to the door but not before he grabs her present from him from under the tree and hands it to her. She smiles.  
‘Thank you, John. How lovely. I’ll see you boys tomorrow, no doubt?’  
‘Oh I don’t think so, Mrs Hudson. Lestrade has a case he needs me to look into, he’s ringing tomorrow so I’ll probably be heading over to the Yard.’ Sherlock is barely able to stop the glee from ringing out and John half expects him to rub his hands together in anticipation.  
‘Oh, another serial killing?’ Mrs Hudson enquires kindly. Sherlock throws his hands up in the air in response.  
‘Don’t know, don’t care! It’s a case Mrs Hudson, a case.’  
The landlady squeezes John’s hand understandingly and takes her leave. John shuts the door and returns to flop next to Sherlock on the sofa, feeling rather alarmingly full and at the same time wondering if he could go for a plate of Christmas cake. Eventually he decides to postpone the pudding for the meantime and instead turns to glance at Sherlock.  
‘So... presents?’  
‘I suppose so,’ Sherlock murmurs, his gaze fixed on the television. ‘It’ll beat watching this rubbish anyway.’  
John reaches out for the remote and flicks the telly off. Sherlock glances at him surreptitiously. He honestly cannot understand how John has been so unobservant. Watching him discover the extra presents will be interesting. Sure enough, John levers himself off the sofa and glances towards the mound under the tree for the first time today. The expressions which flit across his face are priceless and Sherlock has to stop himself from smirking. First of all John starts moving towards the tree and then stops. His eyes narrow and his brows knit together in confusion. He looks as if he is about to ask Sherlock something and then stops, his gaze flicking back to the tree.  
Then a sort of faint hope starts to dawn and the detective watches those blue eyes widen slightly. The doctor flicks a glance back towards Sherlock and then kneels next to the tree and picks up one fairly small package, neatly wrapped in silver paper. A tag dangles off it and John catches it between his fingers to read the inscription.  
His eyes widen even further and he draws a breath in through his teeth. He rocks back to sit down cross-legged next to the tree and turns his head to look properly at Sherlock. The detective has adopted a calm, neutral expression and merely raises an eyebrow.  
‘You... you got me a present.’  
‘I got you four presents, John. Mrs Hudson helped me with the wrapping though.’  
John stays silent for a minute and then says blankly. ‘But you never get anybody presents.’ Sherlock rolls his eyes, something he seems to be doing a lot of lately.  
‘I thought we’d already established the fact that you’re not anybody. Now can we get on with it? Do I have to sit on the floor like a child as well?’  
John appears to be fighting with some deep inner emotion and swallows heavily a few times before finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. When he speaks it is in his normal voice but Sherlock, ever the detective, notes the slightest tremor.  
‘Yes, you do. Come on down here and we’ll start.’  
Huffing to himself Sherlock slithers down off the sofa and shuffles over so that he is sitting next to John, his knees tucked up to his chest. The doctor takes the opportunity to reach out his hand and turn Sherlock’s head towards him. Quickly he leans forward and kisses Sherlock deeply, winding his hand into the detective’s curls. Sherlock opens for him willingly and presses back against him. The heated kiss lasts for about a minute before John pulls back.  
‘Thank you, Sherlock.’  
‘You haven’t opened them yet, you don’t know what they are. You might hate them.’ John smiles.  
‘It doesn’t matter. It just matters that you thought to get me something. That means a lot more.’  
‘It does?’  
Sherlock brows are furrowed in confusion and John laughs lightly. ‘Yes, it does. Come on then, let’s start. I’m fairly sure this one is a crate of beer from Lestrade...’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They open the presents from everybody else first. Sure enough, Lestrade’s is a case of Becks beer which John immediately finds room for in the fridge. There is the usual bottle of cologne from Harry. Sherlock receives a selection of silk shirts and a cheque from Mycroft which he flings aside casually. John doesn’t even want to think about how much the clothing cost, or the amount on the cheque. John himself gets a Chelsea football shirt printed with ‘Watson 01’ on the back and peering closer, he sees that there is a signature scrawled in marker on the bottom of it.   
To John. Cheers for your support. Best wishes, Fernando Torres.  
John gapes at it. Here is proof that Mycroft Holmes is more socially aware than his younger brother. Not only does he know that John is a keen supporter of Chelsea, has been since he was seven, he knows about personalising the shirts and has even managed to get it autographed by one of John’s favourite players. God knows how he knew that, yet alone how he’d managed to get it signed. He shrugs out of his jumper immediately and pulls the shirt on over his head, running his fingers again and again over the autograph at the bottom. Sherlock is frowning at him so he stops and starts unwrapping more gifts.  
Mrs Hudson has bought him a pair of thick gloves and Sherlock gets a new book on the development of crime through the nineteenth century which he gives a cursory glance, pronouncing that it might be quite interesting to flick through when he’s bored.   
Finally they get onto the presents bought for each other. Sherlock examines each of his closely and then picks one up, bringing it up to his eyes as if he might be able to look through the wrapping if he stares hard enough. John, reaching out for one of his, throws him an amused look.  
‘Just open it, will you?’ He knows from the shape that it’s the Rubik’s Cube. Sherlock plucks delicately at the sellotape and opens it neatly. The brightly coloured block tips out onto his lap and he stares at it for a moment before picking it up.  
‘You know what it is, right?’ John asks.  
Sherlock frowns and turns it over a few times in his hands. ‘Well, I presume that all these lines mean it’s designed to move and click into different configurations.’ He glances at John. ‘Is it some kind of puzzle?’ John is flabbergasted.  
‘It’s... it’s a Rubik’s Cube. Please tell me you’ve heard of a Rubik’s Cube.’  
‘The name is vaguely familiar, I think I may have deleted it. What does it do?’   
John reaches out and takes it from him, twisting it over and over again until the block colours have been thoroughly broken up. He hands it back. ‘You have to make each side of the cube one colour again, like it was when you opened it.’  
Sherlock’s face lights up and he examines his present closely, trying a few experimental twists. ‘Thank you, John. This promises to be a distraction, although I must warn you it seems incredibly simple. I’m sure I’ll have solved it within a few days.’  
‘As sure as you were that you’d be brilliant at cooking?’ John asks smugly, unwrapping his first present from Sherlock. Sherlock scowls and doesn’t answer.  
A black box is the first thing John sees. Opening it reveals a slim and sleek phone, clearly one of those new ‘smart’ types. John grins and lifts it out.  
‘I’ve already got a mobile Sherlock, but thank you very much.’  
Sherlock shuffles on the floor. ‘Well, this one’s special. It’s fitted with GPS. I thought it necessary to take that precaution, knowing your unnerving habit of getting kidnapped by my arch-enemies. Now I’ll know where you are at all times.’  
John bursts out laughing. ‘That sounds more like a present for you than for me, Sherlock.’  
‘Ah, yes, I thought you might say that. That’s why I got mine fitted with GPS at the same time. I remember how worried you were when I didn’t answer you a couple of days ago.’  
‘Yes, what were you doing? You never said.’  
‘I was buying your Christmas presents, John. Honestly, couldn’t you tell? No, forget that, of course you couldn’t. Turn it over, there’s something on the back as well.’  
John, smiling and feeling incredibly touched, turns the phone over. Inscribed onto the back are the words.  
To John. Happy Christmas. Love Sherlock.  
It’s brief and to the point and contains a strange mix of formality and sentiment. John swallows again.  
‘Thank you, Sherlock. It’s lovely. But this must have cost you a fortune.’  
Sherlock waves his hand in the air dismissively and moves onto his next gift which turns out to be the pen-knife. He turns it over and over, pulling out all the various implements, a smile on his face.  
‘It was clever of you to think of this, John. I have been thinking for some time that perhaps a gadget like this would come in handy on some of our more... adventurous cases.’  
‘Exactly what I thought. And there’s an inscription.’  
Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Merry Christmas, all my love, John. Xxx  
John had wondered for quite some time over what to put. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate a sloppy, mushy declaration of love and so he’d decided to go for practical and obvious but add his own little bit at the end. If the expression on Sherlock’s face is anything to go by, he made the right choice. The detective’s eyes are wondering as he traces the inscription delicately with the tip of his finger.   
‘It’s perfect,’ is all he finally says and John smiles.  
The next item John pulls out is a card, addressed to him in Sherlock’s distinctive cursive handwriting. Glancing curiously at the detective he opens the envelope and pulls out what looks like a letter and a receipt. He reads the letter first.  
Dear Doctor Watson. Thank you very much for your recent contribution to ‘Hope for Heroes’. As I’m sure you’re aware, our charity relies solely on generous donations from the public to carry on our vital work with soldiers returning injured from overseas. Your money will greatly improve many lives, so thank you again, from all of us here. Best Wishes, Kevin Thomas (Managing Director).  
John blinks in confusion and then picks up the receipt. He stares at it, and then at Sherlock, who is watching him calmly.  
‘What... on earth... is this?’  
‘Your recent contribution to ‘Hope for Heroes’, John. I would have hoped that was obvious.’  
‘But, Sherlock,’ John protests weakly, still holding the receipt and feeling tears rise, ‘this is... a huge amount of money.’  
‘Not that much, really. You know I have a significant amount in savings, this barely scratched the surface if I’m honest.’  
John cannot speak. He holds the receipt for a moment longer and then lunges at Sherlock, flinging his arms around his neck and burying his head in the crook of the detective’s neck. Sherlock pats awkwardly at his back, unsure whether he is supposed to be comforting the doctor or not. After a few minutes John has recovered himself enough to return to his previous position and carry on opening, although the shoulder of Sherlock’s jacket feels suspiciously damp. Sherlock decides not to say anything.  
The next gift from Sherlock to John is a stunning original antique medicine kit from the 1800s. The smooth red leather of the case gives way to four genuine bone-handled scalpels and a certificate of authenticity. Sherlock smiles, pleased with himself. He knows that John is fond of antiques and has been debating with himself about buying something similar for awhile, if his internet browsing history is anything to go by.   
There are only two presents left and they both unwrap them at the same time. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he trails the scarf through his fingers, revelling in its softness. He wraps it around his neck and proclaims that it is massively more comfortable than his old one. John grins and says he bought it because he thought the colour brings out the detective’s eyes, and he is pleased to see he was right.  
Sherlock’s last present to John is a beautiful deep blue jumper. John traces his fingers over the material and Sherlock fidgets next to him.  
‘You don’t have to wear it now. I know you have the... erm... the shirt from Mycroft, and it probably won’t fit over it so...’  
Unhesitatingly John yanks the football top over his head, tosses it into a corner and pulls on the jumper which fits like a second-skin. It’s tighter than he would have chosen for himself, and from the way Sherlock’s eyes are shining it suits him.  
‘I love it. I love you. Thank you for all this, Sherlock.’ John stops himself before he becomes an embarrassing quivering wreck of emotion and merely amuses himself with examining his antique medicine set and attempting to get his flashy new phone to work.  
Sherlock settles himself back on the sofa, his Rubik’s Cube between his hands, ready to start proving to John that a puzzle like this holds no difficulty at all for one of the world’s most brilliant minds.

XXXXXXXXXX

By eleven o’clock that night, both are fairly tired, John naturally more than Sherlock. He puts his new phone down on the table, pleased that he has finally managed to understand it and starts getting ready for bed, followed by Sherlock.  
Once he’d got the hang of the new device it was all fairly easy and he’d even taken a photo of himself and Sherlock to use as wallpaper for the screen, much to the detective’s annoyance. But perhaps, he muses as they settle into bed, Sherlock is just irritable because he seems to be making no visible progress on his Rubik’s Cube. He mentions this as his head hits the pillow and hears Sherlock’s petulant reply as he settles himself underneath the duvet.  
‘Don’t be silly, John. It is a puzzle which requires patience and much careful study, that’s all. You can’t just rush into these things.’  
‘Of course you can’t,’ John responds, yawning, pulling Sherlock closer into his chest like a giant, gangly teddy-bear. ‘Night, Sherlock.’  
‘Goodnight, John. Thank you for a bearable Christmas.’  
And that, John thinks as he drops into sleep, is praise indeed.


	26. The Case

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Case

Once again Sherlock wakes early in the morning. He lies on his back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, aware that John has curled around him during the night. After awhile he gets bored with lying stationary, and, bearing in mind what John had said yesterday about waking him up for sex, he gently removes John’s limbs from where they have entangled with his own, and slips out from under the duvet.  
Snagging his dressing gown from the door he pulls it on as he makes his way downstairs. It is still too early to call Lestrade. Damn it. Now that he has the prospect of a case, he feels his blood and nerves thrumming as they always do with anticipation and adrenaline. Briefly he prays to whatever God there may be that it is a good one, something worthwhile of his time. But it must be, otherwise Lestrade would not have specifically requested his help. Although, given his desperation at the moment even a missing cat would be a blessing. Absently he flings himself down on the sofa and picks up his Rubik’s Cube. He is determined to best it as soon as he can otherwise John will be simply impossible.  
He is still toying with it when John appears at the doorway, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.  
‘Ah, I thought you might be playing with your new toy. Made any progress?’  
Sherlock glowers at him and throws the cube across the room. ‘It’s a stupid puzzle,’ he announces petulantly. John merely smiles understandingly at him.  
‘So I’ll take that as a ‘no’ shall I?’  
‘What’s the time?’ Sherlock asks him abruptly. John blinks and then glances at his watch.  
‘It’s, um, half past eight. But...?’  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. As soon as the time has come out of his mouth, Sherlock has whipped his phone out from his pocket and is busy scrolling through his contacts, a look of intense joy and excitement on his face. John opens his mouth to ask why Sherlock demanded the time off him when he had his mobile on him all along, then thinks better of it and slopes into the kitchen to make some tea. He has no delusions about who Sherlock is phoning.  
The honeymoon period is definitely over, he thinks morosely as he prods teabags into two mugs and waits for the kettle to boil. They’d had these few days grace since discovering their feelings for eachother, without the demands of a case. Now Sherlock will go back to his usual self and their budding relationship will be put on the backburner. John tries desperately not to feel too miserable about this. He always knew this would happen, and at least he had a perfect Christmas.  
‘Lestrade? Sherlock. Yes, I’m coming into the Yard to discuss the case with you. I prefer not to do it over the phone. I need visuals. I take it the photographer took detailed pictures? Good. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.’  
John blinks, in the act of pouring the now scalding water into the chipped mugs. Twenty minutes?  
‘John! Did you hear that? You need to put some clothes on... as do I, come to think of it. We’re off to the Yard. Forget about the tea.’  
Sighing John puts down the kettle and trails after the manic detective, as he always has done and always will do.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In record time they are out of the flat and ensconced in a taxi heading for the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock is wearing his new scarf and John his new jumper. As they pull away from Baker Street Sherlock’s mobile rings once more and, glancing over, John can see Lestrade on the caller ID.  
‘Yes, we’re on our way now, what...?’ Sherlock trails off as Lestrade speaks on the other end of the line. The detective’s features tighten and it seems to John that his milky skin becomes somehow paler. Those full lips are taut with stress and he bites out his next words.  
‘Right. Fine. No, don’t worry. It can’t be helped.’ Another stress-laden pause as Lestrade talks. John watches Sherlock intently. ‘I’m a grown man Lestrade, I can take care of myself. And besides, John’s with me. What can possibly happen when I’m accompanied by my blogger?’ A wry smile and Sherlock hangs up, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket. John fidgets on the seat for a moment or two.  
‘You’ve got questions,’ Sherlock announces bluntly, staring out of the window at the snowy streets.  
‘Yes, erm, what was that about?’  
Finally Sherlock turns to look at him. That cold mask is firmly back in place but John can pick it apart now, he knows exactly where all the weaknesses are. Sherlock’s lips are still pulled tighter than is usual for him and there is a vulnerability dancing deep in the depths of his stormy eyes.  
‘It’s nothing. Only that... apparently the Yard are short on staff at the moment, it being the Christmas holidays, apparently people want it off to spend time with their families. Anyway, the upshot of all this being... Lestrade has been forced to enlist the help of Anderson and Donovan.’ The detective’s rich voice is deceptively calm, with only the merest twitch in his cheek as he says their names betraying his true feelings. John feels his hands clench into fists.  
‘If they try anything, anything at all, I’ll...’  
Sherlock smiles wryly. ‘I doubt that will be necessary John. I’m fully prepared for the juvenile comments they may hurl my way. And it’s not as if they’ll have any fuel for the fire. We’ll maintain a professional distance as we always have done, and that will make it... easier.’ It seems to John that Sherlock almost forces these last few words out and his own mind struggles to make sense of them.  
‘What... what are you talking about, add fuel to the fire? What fire? And why the hell are you suddenly talking about professional distance?’  
Sherlock turns to him and the mask has slipped another few notches, the barest hint of pain showing through. ‘I would have thought it obvious, John. The last time we encountered Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, a number of deeply personal and embarrassing statements were read out concerning my feelings for you. I want you to know that I’m going to keep your embarrassment in front of the rest of the Yard to a minimum. You don’t have to worry about it.’  
John, being almost fluent in Sherlock-speak by this point, frowns. ‘Wait a minute. You think that I’m scared of being embarrassed by you? In front of the Yard?’  
‘Well, yes, John. I’ve been on the receiving end of that, don’t forget, and although I consider myself above such things it is definitely not a pleasant experience and something I don’t want you to go through...’   
Yes, the mask is definitely slipping, as much as Sherlock is clearly attempting to hoist it back into place. John scowls and reaches a hand across the taxi, grasping Sherlock’s fingers.  
‘You absolute idiot. You think I’m ashamed to be seen with you? Is that it? You think that you’re somehow going to embarrass me in front of the Yard by being affectionate?’  
‘You’d be perfectly within your rights to worry about that, John,’ Sherlock says tightly. ‘I know it cannot be easy for you, a previously heterosexual man to suddenly deal with this sort of thing. I was trying to make it easier.’  
‘Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. Have you forgotten everything I told you the day that happened and I came and found you at your mother’s house? That talk we had on your bed?’  
‘Of course not, John,’ Sherlock sniffs disdainfully.  
‘Well then you’ll remember that I told you I announced to pretty much everybody there that I fancied you like mad and was halfway to being in love with you. And I am in love with you. I don’t care you knows it. In fact, the more people who know it, the better in my opinion. So we’re going to go in there together – like I said before, okay?’  
‘You’re... sure?’ John tightens his hand around Sherlock’s.  
‘I’m sure. Although I’m not saying we should go in and get ourselves thrown out for indecent public behaviour...’ he pauses seeing a dreamy look enter Sherlock’s eyes. ‘Sherlock, no! That is not happening.’ Laughing he pulls the detective towards him for a kiss. ‘But I’m not going to hide being in love with you, okay?’ He glowers suddenly. ‘And if Anderson, Donovan or anybody object they can bloody well suck it.’  
‘I don’t know how I got so lucky,’ Sherlock murmurs softly before turning away and staring out of the window again.

XXXXXXXXXX

If John notices a slight hesitation in Sherlock’s usual step when they get out of the taxi and walk into Scotland Yard, he doesn’t comment. Instead he takes Sherlock’s hand, squeezes it, and gives him a small reassuring smile.  
The detective smiles back and strides off, leading the way, John still attached to his hand. They receive a few looks as they make their way through the numerous corridors and rooms to Lestrade’s office but Sherlock doesn’t react, preferring instead to act as usual by staring straight ahead as if everybody else around is completely beneath him.   
‘Ah, glad you’re both here,’ Lestrade says as Sherlock sweeps in without knocking. The Inspector looks tired and rubs at both temples with his fingertips before gesturing for them to sit down. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand and plonks himself down. Sherlock, as usual, doesn’t and continues to pace.  
‘You have the files, I take it?’  
Lestrade waves a hand at the desk where a small pile of manila folders are sitting. Sherlock snatches them up and begins flicking through them.   
‘Basic outline?’ he asks as he reads. Lestrade sighs but begins to talk.  
‘It was December 22nd when we found him. We identified him pretty soon as James Hammond, thirty-one years old, lives in London. Body was found in an abandoned alley just off Glenloch Road in Belsize Park by a man walking his dog at six-thirty in the morning. The statement’s in there of course. There were no clues to be found, no witnesses and no apparent motive. We’ve been making enquiries and the victim was well liked, no enemies and no shady dealings. There’s a statement from his boyfriend Josh Warren in there as well. Poor bloke was devastated, I had to do the interview myself.’  
‘Cause of death?’ John asks, as Sherlock is still busy reading and doesn’t look like he is going to be saying anything anytime soon. Lestrade groans and sinks his head deeper into his hands.  
‘That’s the weirdest thing about it.’ He raises his head and looks John straight on, his warm brown eyes exhausted. ‘Every bone in his body was broken, John. Every single one. Down to the smallest on his little toe. It was like he’d been dropped from a hi-rise or something, but there was no corresponding injury on his head to corroborate that theory. It was done deliberately.’  
John blinks and all he can utter is a very unintelligent sounding repeat. ‘Every one?’  
‘Yep. And as a doctor you’ll know, that’s a lot of bones. His killer went to great trouble over this. The worst part is, we think he was still alive when many of them were broken.’ Sherlock interrupts at this point.   
‘So what was the actual cause of death?’  
Lestrade sighs. ‘A single slash wound to the neck. Made with some sort of small, sharp implement going by the stroke, probably a knife of some kind. There are photos in there.’  
Sherlock gets down onto his hands and knees, opens the folder with the pictures in, and spreads them out over the floor. Canvassed there on the carpet they present a surreal and horrific collage of death. John has to steel his nerves before he drops to the floor near Sherlock. The detective himself doesn’t seem fazed, as usual, and merely gets as close to each of the photos as he possibly can, examining each of them with a keen gaze.  
The man is on his back in the alley, eyes wide open and staring at the sky. In life those eyes must have been beautiful, John thinks absently, a shining pale blue gaze. In death they are glazed and dull. The man’s features are handsome yet somehow irregular with a large nose and almost obscenely full lips. His mouth is twisted in agony, as is his entire expression. This is not a man who has died peacefully.   
Moving down John can see the slash wound to the throat. Delicately he picks up the photo and examines it intently. Sherlock glances up at him and waits for his judgement.  
‘Lestrade’s right. I think this is the cause of death. Strange, though, isn’t it? That he put the poor man through all that and then, just this? Seems a bit anticlimatic.’  
Sherlock beams at him. ‘Precisely, John! Couldn’t have put it better myself! Pass me that picture.’  
John does so and Sherlock spends a good minute examining it. ‘A single slash wound, left to right so we’re looking for a right-handed killer. The cut is jagged and torn around the edges, clearly a serrated implement, probably a knife, but could be a small saw or something else of that kind.’ He twists the photo this way and that, his eyes flashing over every small detail invisible to anyone but him.  
Once he has finished with that particular photo he moves onto the rest, looking at each one intently before moving onto the next. John knows better than to talk, as does Lestrade, and the two of them merely sit quietly as the slender detective mutters to himself. Occasionally they catch low grumbles about how photographs are nowhere near as good as actually being on the scene, and how on earth do people expect him to help with this sort of shoddy photography? Finally he stands up and gracefully sinks into a chair, one hand fiddling absently with his scarf.  
‘You’re looking for a man probably in his late twenties to early thirties, although he could be older. Impossible to say what race he is from these pictures. He’ll be just under six foot, with size nine shoes and smokes Richmond cigarettes. The murder was not committed in the alley, he was moved and placed there. The suspect was driving a fairly large car, probably navy or black in colour, but it’s impossible to get more specific than that. That’s all I’ve got for you so far. I hate deducing photographs.’ The last sentence is mumbled and Sherlock appears to slump a little lower in his seat. Lestrade and John are smiling.  
‘That was brilliant, Sherlock. Seriously. You got that just from the pictures?’  
‘It wasn’t exactly difficult, John. The age was an educated guess going by how much energy it must have taken him to break all the bones and then transport the body to the alley. The killing blow across the throat was committed with a decent amount of force behind it. His height and shoe size I can tell from the footsteps which are imprinted into the mud of the alley. As far as I can recall it rained quite heavily on the afternoon of the 21st and so the imprint of his foot is very clearly defined. There are no other marks or tracks so it is evident that’s our killer. As you are both aware I have made a detailed study of various tobacco ash and there’s a small amount scattered just to the left of the victim’s body. Easily identifiable even from a photograph, Richmond.’   
At this juncture he throws John and Lestrade a look which clearly dares them to make any comments about how his study of tobacco ash is useless. No response is forthcoming and he carries on. ‘But he’s careful, he didn’t leave a butt behind so we can’t identify his DNA. The lack of any sign of a scuffle and no arterial spray on the walls of the alley, which is fairly narrow after all, indicate that the victim was not killed there. Added to that there are the clear tyre tracks just outside the alley entrance which I am sure you have also picked up on. Again it’s difficult to identify the car more accurately, but I would say it’s a fairly large one. The colour we can guess at from this scrape right here...’  
Sherlock plucks a photo out and puts it on the desk so John and the Inspector can peer at it. ‘I don’t know if your team identified this, probably not knowing how unutterably stupid they can be, however this is more than likely from our suspect’s car. He scraped the wall of the alley just slightly when he drove off or arrived. Not enough so that he would notice and definitely not enough to make a large mark. All it did was scrape a tiny bit of paint off the bodywork. It’s hard to tell again exactly what colour it is, but it looks to me like navy or black. Of course, this could have happened at an earlier date, but it’s very unlikely.’  
‘Amazing,’ John breathes and Sherlock flashes him an amused glance.  
Lestrade, who has been scribbling notes on a pad in front of him, puts down his pen and stretches back in his chair.  
‘Thanks Sherlock, that’s all very helpful. Of course we’d have preferred to have you at the scene when it happened but for... various reasons that wasn’t possible.’  
‘Well, not to worry Lestrade, I’m sure it’ll happen again.’ There’s a silence after he says this and once more he looks to John. ‘Not good?’  
‘Bit not good, Sherlock. I know you love serial killers but...’ John trails off and decides there’s no point. ‘Why do you think there’ll be another one anyway?’  
‘Simple. From what I’ve read of the victim and the statement from the boyfriend and people who knew him, there was no apparent motive for the murder. James Hammond was liked by pretty much everybody and as Lestrade says there is no hint of shady dealings anywhere in his background. Works in the City, fairly well off, so no money troubles which might have prompted him to take out a loan from dubious sources. I don’t believe this is a one-off and the style of the murder is, unusual, to say the least. It’s as if the murderer wanted to draw attention and that’s usually the modus operandi of serial killers.’  
‘Well, if another one does come up we’ll be on the phone to you straight away, you have my word,’ Lestrade says, fiddling with some papers in one of his desk drawers. ‘I’ve had the relevant information and photos copied, I’m sure you’ll want to look over them at home.’ He withdraws a bundle of documents and fixes Sherlock with a stern look. ‘Not a word, Sherlock, I’m serious. If the higher-ups found I’d let sensitive material like this out of the Yard, let alone home with you, we’re all going to be in serious shit. Understand?’  
‘It’s noted,’ Sherlock says impatiently, holding out a hand for the files. Lestrade hands them over and Sherlock bundles them into one of his coat’s huge inside pockets. ‘I want to take a quick look at the scene, I know everything’s been cleared up, but sometimes it helps.’  
Lestrade shrugs. ‘Fine by me. It’s open to the public again now, though, so don’t expect to find much.’  
Sherlock gets up from his chair, nods to Lestrade and wraps his coat tighter around him.  
‘Come on, John. We’re wasting daylight.’  
John sighs and heaves himself up, following the detective out of the door. Sherlock’s fast pace means that his coat billows as he sweeps through the various corridors and John finds himself almost trotting to keep up. Back to normal, he thinks wryly.  
Suddenly Sherlock freezes and John almost crashes into the back of him. Then he sees what has arrested the detective. Anderson and Donovan have just come out of a door ahead and are walking down the corridor towards them.  
Anderson glances up, pauses and then smirks as he continues sauntering their way. Donovan just looks mildly disgusted. Noticing the way Sherlock’s shoulders have tensed, John slips his hand into the detective’s and squeezes lightly.  
Sherlock flashes him a brief look of appreciation before he turns back to face the loathsome duo.  
‘Well, look who it is. The freak and...’ Anderson’s eyes travel down to John and Sherlock’s joined hands before looking up once more, ‘... his clearly delusional sidekick. So what, are you two together now or something?’ His smirk grows wider as he glances from one to the other.  
‘Yes we are. Have you got a problem with that?’ John responds when it becomes clear that Sherlock isn’t going to say anything. In fact the detective is gazing at a spot on the wall somewhere over Anderson’s head, refusing to engage.  
Anderson steps back a little, raising both his hands in mock surrender. ‘Oh, no, no problem. Why, you’re not going to hit me again are you? I haven’t even done anything.’  
‘If I was going to hit you again, you’d be slumped against the wall, crying like last time,’ John responds coolly. ‘I’ve decided you’re not worth it. Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to solve a murder. Right, Sherlock?’  
The detective nods jerkily and John moves them around Anderson and Donovan to continue on down the corridor. Donovan seems to have lost interest completely in the altercation, or perhaps she’s just trying to keep herself under control, but Anderson shouts after them.  
‘Just you wait, Doctor Watson! The freak obviously has ulterior motives for being with you! You’re going to get tossed out like so much rubbish when he’s done!’  
‘Pathetic,’ John murmurs, tugging harder on Sherlock’s hand and walking quicker. They make their way out of the Yard and John hails a taxi. ‘What was the road again?’ he asks as they settle themselves inside.  
‘Glenloch Road, please,’ Sherlock mutters to the cabby. The car pulls out into the traffic.   
‘Sherlock, are you okay?’ The detective doesn’t look at him, merely continues staring out of the window. ‘Are you even going to look at me?’ John continues, not put off.  
‘I’m fine, John, stop fussing,’ Sherlock mumbles.  
‘You’re clearly not fine. You were alright in the office and then we bump into Anderson and Donovan and now you’re acting like... this. What’s up?’  
‘Anderson’s probably right, you know,’ Sherlock responds, still gazing steadfastedly out the window as the taxi winds its way through the icy streets of London.   
‘Right? He wasn’t right about anything,’ John says vehemently.  
‘About me – I probably am going to hurt you and I won’t even know I’ve done it. To be honest I’m still having trouble comprehending why you’re willing to risk it.’ His voice is cold, clinical and detached. John hates it. He reaches out a hand and twists Sherlock’s head forcefully towards him so that the detective has to look into his eyes.  
‘Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You’re being ridiculous. I trust you, okay? And I love you. I know what you’re capable of and I know what I’m getting myself into, I’m an adult. Understand?’ John has gone for the firm approach and hopes it will pay off. Sherlock hesitates for a second and then a glimmer of a smile appears on his lips.  
‘Fine.’  
‘Good. Now shut up and give me a kiss.’  
‘So demanding,’ Sherlock murmurs silkily before leaning forwards and pressing his lips to John’s. The doctor immediately plunges his hand into Sherlock’s thick curls and tugs slightly, as if to reinforce his point. That, and the fact that he just really likes running his hands through Sherlock’s hair.

XXXXXXXXXXX

There is nobody around when they arrive at Glenloch Road. This isn’t really surprising, John muses, as it’s Boxing Day and most sensible people are at home eating leftover turkey, drinking and enjoying the peace. PS, the term he has come up with in his own mind to describe the time Pre-Sherlock, he would have been one of those normal people. But now he is standing in the snow at the entrance of a filthy alleyway, watching his boyfriend flatten himself to the ground in order to examine something with his portable microscope which isn’t visible to the human eye.   
John sighs and shifts his feet a little. He can’t really understand the point in coming here. Okay, he knows Sherlock likes to get a feel for the locations where crimes are committed, but as Lestrade said, the alley has been free and clear to the public for at least a couple of days. Any clues have surely been trampled and lost forever.  
‘Found anything?’ he calls after awhile in a voice resonant with the conviction that Sherlock won’t have found anything.  
Sherlock springs up from the ground and stalks towards him, the walk only slightly ruined when he skids on a patch of ice.  
‘I hate the public,’ he mutters.  
‘So nothing then?’ John asks cheerfully, plunging his hands into his pockets and wondering where the nearest open pub might be.  
‘Well, I did find something... but I’m not sure of its relevance as of yet.’  
‘What?’  
In response Sherlock opens his palm and reveals a small pile of safety pins. John blinks at them. Out of all the things he had expected Sherlock to have found, this wasn’t it.  
‘Right. That’s... safety pins.’  
‘Excellent observation, John,’ Sherlock responds scathingly. ‘They were piled in a dark corner at the very end of the alley. I doubt the police would have bothered to look closely that far away from the corpse, and it was only because I did look closely that I found them. Although I have to admit, I’m not sure if they mean anything.’  
‘It’s certainly very odd,’ John replies, gazing at the pins. Suddenly an idea occurs to him and he opens his mouth but Sherlock beats him to the punch.  
‘No, John. Absolutely not! You are not calling this case anything like ‘The Safety Pin Killer’ on your blog! I refuse.’  
‘You refuse?’ John asks incredulously. ‘Exactly whose blog is it? And I wasn’t thinking of anything like ‘The Safety Pin Killer’. I was thinking ‘The Stationary Slasher’.’  
Sherlock gapes at him for a moment.  
‘You know, because safety pins are kind of in the same league as stationary and the victim was killed with a slash wound to the...’  
Sherlock begins walking away and John trails after him, guessing that his idea hasn’t gone down well. He catches up to the detective and pulls on his sleeve, making the other man face him.   
‘Oh come on, it was just a joke.’ Tenderly he pulls Sherlock down towards him for a kiss. The detective seems to follow his lead until his mobile shrills in his pocket. Spinning abruptly away from John, making the doctor stagger slightly, he presses the phone to his ear.  
‘Sherlock.’  
Distantly John can hear Lestrade’s voice echo down the line.  
‘There’s been another one.’


	27. The Second Victim

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Second Victim

John blinks. Another one? Already? Sherlock is pacing up and down the snowy street, talking quickly, waving his free hand in the air emphatically at whatever Lestrade is saying. John merely rubs his hands together to keep them warm and watches him. Now that he thinks about it, he supposes it’s not that surprising. After all the corpse of James Hammond was actually found on the 22nd and today is Boxing Day so the killer has left a gap of four days. That’s even assuming it is the same killer.  
Soon enough Sherlock has finished the conversation and is striding away up to the main road to call a taxi, waving over his shoulder at John.  
‘Come on! I’ve got the address from Lestrade, they’re going to meet us there.’  
John pants as he jogs to catch up with him, careful to avoid the patches of treacherous ice on the pavement.  
‘It’s the same killer then?’  
‘Don’t know, but it looks promising.’  
A sudden thought occurs to John. ‘Are Anderson and Donovan going to be there?’  
Sherlock grimaces as he comes to a halt and gazes around for a taxi. ‘Yes, unfortunately. But some evils cannot be avoided. Why are there no taxis around? We’re going to have to ring for one, John.’  
‘It’s Boxing Day,’ John mutters in response but obligingly fishes his phone out from his pocket. Because when Sherlock says we’re going to ring a taxi it’s clear he means you. John enters the number from memory and within five minutes a car is pulling up in front of them. Sherlock folds himself into the back seat, followed by John.  
‘Kelly Street, Kentish Town. Quick as you can.’

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade greets them as they pull up, hovering on the pavement. A few metres away they can see police tape and a couple of uniformed officers keeping the small crowd of curious onlookers away from what can only be another alleyway.  
Sherlock shoulders through them, clearly only barely listening to Lestrade chattering in his ear. John trails after, his hands once more plunged into his pockets.  
They duck under the tape and find themselves in an alley remarkably similar to the one they just left. There is no body.   
‘Where is it?’ Sherlock asks sharply.  
‘Just round the corner,’ Lestrade mutters, gesturing.  
Sure enough, a couple of steps takes them around to the left and the victim is revealed. He lies sprawled on the slushy dirt of the ground, limbs sprawled wide. His dark hair is soaked and once again his eyes gaze lifelessly at the sky but unlike the previous victim there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong with him, apart from the obvious fact that he’s dead. John edges a little closer.  
‘No broken bones, no slash wound to the throat...’ he begins, peering at the body. Sherlock walks around it a few times, his keen gaze flickering like searching torch light, lingering at certain points.  
‘John?’ he calls and the doctor moves forward to kneel by the man’s head. Lightly he touches two fingers to the pulse point, as if to ascertain that the man is actually dead, if it wasn’t for his deathly pallor he could just be fast asleep or unconscious. Delicately he probes around the throat, pulls the dark strands of hair apart gently to examine the skull and then turns his attention to the man’s mouth and nose.  
‘Well?’ Lestrade asks from a few feet away. John rocks back on his heels, cupping his face with one hand.  
‘There’s no obvious cause of death. If I was going to take a guess I’d suggest drowning, but that’s a bit of a shot in the dark.’  
‘Nothing wrong with shots in the dark,’ Sherlock quips, smiling briefly at him before bending down opposite and starting his own detailed examination.  
‘Oh God, the freak’s already here?’ The abrasive tones of Anderson ring out from behind Lestrade and John glances up to see the forensic scientist slumped against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest and a glowering expression on his face. ‘I don’t want him mucking up my crime scene, Lestrade! It’s bad enough that he’s here, let alone contaminating the evidence.’  
Lestrade opens his mouth to reply but Sherlock, as usual, beats him to the punch. ‘Out of everybody present you are the only one likely to contaminate evidence by your bewildering stupidity.’ As he speaks he continues to examine the corpse, gently lifting arms and legs, brushing long fingers over clothing and exposed skin.  
‘How dare you, you freakish little psycho...’ Anderson’s face has flushed red with a combination of cold and fury and Sherlock smirks. Lestrade massages his temples and then waves a hand at Anderson.  
‘Just... go and wait around the corner, Anderson. I’ll call when they’re done.’  
‘This is insanity,’ Anderson huffs before storming back around the corner.   
‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade says in a low voice, thrumming with deep-seated stress, ‘I know he deserves it and everything but can you please, please try to play nice? Just for once?’ Sherlock rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. John glances at the Inspector.  
‘He should be allowed to defend himself if he’s attacked first, Lestrade. Perhaps you should be having this chat with Anderson instead.’  
Lestrade groans. ‘I’m too tired for this. Okay fine. Fine. Sherlock, what have you got?’ He casts his eyes to the heavens as if subtly praying for something, anything. Sherlock gets languidly to his feet and dashes away down the alley, his head thrusting from side to side like some kind of sniffer-dog. John rolls his eyes and sends an apologetic look at Lestrade.  
‘What is he doing?’ Lestrade wonders.  
John shrugs and gets to his feet. His legs are beginning to seize up after being in the same position for too long. Stamping on the hard ground to try and get some circulation back they wait while the skinny figure of the detective dashes around a few feet away, occasionally lowering to the floor or examining the brickwork of the walls on either side of the alley.  
‘Aha!’ comes a victorious shout after about a minute of this. Lestrade and John glance at one another.  
‘What is it, Sherlock?’ John calls.  
The man in question comes skidding back to them, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling. Without ceremony he holds out his gloved hand, palm up.  
‘Safety-pins!’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It doesn’t take long for Lestrade’s team to identify the newest body. Michael Blackmoore, twenty-nine, also from London. Donovan is put in charge of finding his relations and informing them of the tragedy and she leaves, her face gloomy. Nobody likes the job of telling people somebody they love is dead, let alone in such circumstances.   
The forensics team do their thing, photographs are taken, and finally an ambulance arrives to take the body to the morgue for the post-mortem. Lestrade, his face still haggard with exhaustion, wanders over to where John and Sherlock are standing as the ambulance drives off with its grisly cargo.  
‘So... safety-pins?’  
‘Sherlock found some back at Glenloch Road, they’d clearly been missed. It could have been a coincidence but now...’ John trails off, glancing at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes are unfocussed and John knows he is back in his ‘Mind Palace’, desperately attempting to find the one link which will connect the threads.  
‘So, we could be looking at a serial killer then?’ Lestrade asks tentatively. John smiles sadly. Gregory Lestrade is a seasoned police officer, not to mention a damned good Inspector. The question is rhetorical. Lestrade sighs. ‘Well, I hope Sherlock can come up with something soon. This is going to turn into a total media circus. We need to try and identify what makes this guy tick. Two completely different styles of murder... what a mess.’ He starts walking away towards his car, but throws a remark over his shoulder at John. ‘When he deigns to join us again, get him to ring me if he finds anything, anything at all. God knows we need something to tell the press.’  
John stays silent, watching as the alley is returned to its normal state, waiting until Sherlock rejoins reality. It doesn’t take long. There is a long, drawn-out sigh from behind him and he turns to see the detective rubbing distractedly at his temples.  
‘Nothing?’  
‘No,’ Sherlock growls, spinning on his heel and striding back off towards the main road. John trots after him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back at Baker Street Sherlock has set up a corkboard against one wall with pictures of the two victims. John doesn’t even want to ask how he got the photo of the latest corpse. Beneath each picture are some scribbled details. Name, age, way in which they were murdered, location.   
John, slumped in his armchair with a cup of tea, surveys his boyfriend over the rim of the mug. Sherlock is pacing back and forth, his pale eyes alight with an intense fire. Occasionally he mutters to himself and leaps forward to the board, only to fall back again a second later, his gaze suddenly clouded in disappointment. John knows enough of Sherlock’s methods not to be worried or distracted by this behaviour. He takes a loud slurp of tea and the detective abruptly whirls around to face him.  
‘John. What can you tell me about these men?’  
The doctor blinks, taken aback slightly. ‘Erm... well. They’re both young, similar ages. Both live in London. I suppose there are certain physical similarities. It seems our killer has a definite type. But then again, there are lots of things which make them different.’  
‘Such as?’ John knows that Sherlock already has all this information, after all Lestrade has had any developments biked over to the flat. But he realises that the detective needs a sounding board.   
‘Well, James Hammond was gay, lived with his boyfriend of two years. He had a large circle of friends and a good job. Michael Blackmoore, on the other hand, seemed to live almost like a hermit. No girlfriend or boyfriend, landlady says he hardly ever had anyone come to call. Worked night shifts as a caretaker at a Primary School, earned barely enough to live. Bit of a mystery by all accounts.’  
‘Indeed,’ Sherlock murmurs softly, his gaze returning to the corkboard. ‘And the safety-pins? Any theories?’  
John shrugs. ‘None. I’m completely stumped. Although it does seem that he’s trying to leave a message, announcing that he was the one responsible. You know how serial killers sometimes do. Like leaving a rose or a sign next to the body.’  
‘Strange that it should be safety-pins though. I mean what’s the significance?’  
John continues drinking his tea and doesn’t reply. He isn’t surprised when Sherlock suddenly spins around and flies over to the bookshelf in the corner, hauling tomes out at random. John watches him for awhile. Book after book is yanked from the shelves and placed haphazardly on the table. The piles grow and grow until John can hardly see his boyfriend over the battlement of books.  
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ John asks eventually, his curiosity getting the better of him. Sherlock pops his curly head around the corner of one of the stacks.  
‘I’ve told you before, no crime is completely original. No murder has never been done before. Somewhere in these...’ he waves a hand at the table, ‘is a case which will provide me with an important clue.’ He steps back and surveys the piles. ‘It’s just a matter of finding it.’  
John smirks and rolls his eyes. ‘Well, good luck with that.’ Checking his watch he heaves himself to his feet and takes his empty mug into the kitchen. ‘I’m going to start dinner. What do you want to eat?’  
‘Nothing, not hungry,’ Sherlock bites out, already flicking through the first book. John sighs.  
‘You have to eat something. Even just a turkey sandwich.’  
‘I told you I’m not hungry.’  
‘Well, I’ll make you one anyway. It’ll be on the side in case you feel like eating. Okay?’ There is no response, but then John hadn’t really expected one. This is typical behaviour from Sherlock on a case.  
Thanks to the fact he bought a turkey joint able to feed ten people, not just three, there is a lot leftover from their Christmas. Before too long, two turkey sandwiches stuffed with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise are standing on the counter. John clears a space off the table and sits down to eat his. He is dimly aware of Sherlock in the background still frantically flicking through pages. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘I’m off to bed, are you coming up too?’  
‘Busy, John,’ Sherlock responds, poring over a book. As John watches he plunges his hands into his hair and rubs at his scalp, an indication he is getting stressed at his lack of success. John sighs and heads up the stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXX

‘Have you been here all night?’ John asks when he comes down the next morning and finds Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor, still surrounded by the mountain of books. This has been joined by several balled up pieces of paper which bear his signature cursive handwriting.   
‘No time for sleeping, John,’ Sherlock says. John glances to the kitchen and sees the turkey sandwich still standing where he left it, absolutely untouched.  
‘Will you at least have breakfast?’  
‘Nope,’ Sherlock replies, flipping through a notebook and snatching up a pen to scribble something down.  
John sets the kettle on to boil and wanders into the living room. Picking his way between the tottering stacks of books he collapses into his chair and regards his boyfriend.  
‘Do you need any help? Is there anything... I can do?’  
‘Your silence right now would be wonderful,’ Sherlock mutters, grabbing for another book. John sighs and tries not to let the biting words hurt him. He knows Sherlock doesn’t mean it nastily, but he hates feeling left out. He listens, however, and for the next few hours they remain silent. Finally Sherlock stands up and stretches, once more plunging his hands into his hair. John looks up from his laptop.  
‘Success?’  
Sherlock scowls. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing!’ He kicks out at the nearest stack of books which teeters for a moment and then falls with a horrendous thunking sound. John stares at the mess.  
‘You do know you’re cleaning that up, right?’  
‘Oh, boring, John! What’s a little disorder when we have a case to solve! Come on, you must have some ideas. You know my methods, now apply them! What do these men have in common? There must be something or the killer wouldn’t have targeted them. And why those differing methods?’  
John pauses. ‘Well, I do have one theory.’  
‘Excellent, John! Why didn’t you say?’  
John refuses to indulge his petty side by announcing that Sherlock has barely listened to him for the past twenty-four-hours and instead sets his laptop down on the floor. ‘Well. The two victims are very similar in appearance, right? What if this killer has been jilted somehow and is taking out his revenge? Perhaps our killer is gay – I mean, it’s possible, right?’  
Sherlock frowns at him. ‘Your idea would be brilliant if it wasn’t so obviously flawed. Firstly, we’re not even sure that the second victim was gay. Secondly, why on earth break all the bones in one victim and then simply drown the next? Thirdly, what about the safety-pins? What is their relevance? Fourthly...’  
‘Right, okay. It’s a terrible idea, I get it.’ John swallows down his hurt feelings and reaches for his laptop once more. ‘It was just a theory. But it doesn’t look like you’ve come up with anything either.’  
This is a low-blow and he knows it. Sherlock’s features tighten and an angry look enters his eyes. ‘I have several theories, John, I am just exploring possibilities at this moment. It’s a slippery slope if you form an idea too early, it means your vision is narrowed automatically. And there have only been two victims so far, a third would be perfect. Then we could really see what is going on.’  
John feels his temper rising. ‘And that would make you happy, would it? A third victim?’  
‘In the sense that it would help in identifying the killer’s behavioural pattern, yes. You know this about me, John.’  
John swallows hard and stands up. ‘Yes, I know this about you. But I also thought you might have gained a little compassion. I know a third victim might help you figure out the case. But you’re forgetting that in order for you to do that, some other innocent person will die. I can’t help being affected.’  
Sherlock huffs in annoyance and spins around to face his corkboard. ‘You should put it out of your mind. It won’t help catch our murderer.’  
John scowls. ‘Really? Because some profilers say that identifying with your suspect helps you catch them. In that way you could say that caring matters.’  
The detective stares at him, wide-eyed. ‘Is this about the whole caring business? I thought we’d gone through that.’  
‘Well I thought you might have changed your mind just a little. I appreciate your methods of working, Sherlock, really I do but... two men are dead. One had a boyfriend who I imagine loved him just as much as I love you. The other... yeah, apparently he was a hermit, but I’m sure he had parents who loved him. I just don’t get how you can... feel these things you profess to feel for me and yet act with such indifference!’ John’s face is flushed and he curls his fingers together over and over in the fabric of the armchair’s cushion.  
Sherlock walks over to the window and stares out at the street before he speaks in a hushed tone.  
‘I knew this would happen. This is exactly why I warned you not to get in a relationship with me, John.’  
‘You knew what would happen?’ John asks belligerantly. ‘That I would question your sociopathic nature when we’re on crime scenes? I’ve already done that.’  
‘Yes, but it’s different when you’re in a relationship with me. I had hoped it wouldn’t affect our... whatever it is between us... but clearly you’re taking it personally.’  
‘You absolute idiot, Sherlock! I have always taken it personally. I’m used to it. I’ve been more than happy to follow around on your cases. But you don’t listen to me, and I’m sick of it. I may not be a genius but I’ve got a fairly good grasp of psychology, something you don’t seem to have. I help. I’m just sick of you treating murder victims like they’re the latest clue in some freakish game show.’  
Sherlock blinks and pauses. ‘But it is a game, John. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?’ John sighs and waves a hand dismissively.  
‘Apparently not. I’m not discussing this with you right now, Sherlock. It’s pissing me off too much. I’m going to the shops. We’re out of milk. Again.’  
With that parting remarks he grabs his jacket, keys and wallet and strides out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.  
Angrily Sherlock stalks over to the window, narrowly skirting the piles of books, and gazes out. He sees John walking away down the street, head bowed, hands plunged into his pockets. 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The next couple of days pass in a bit of a blur. Sherlock spends the majority of his time either at Barts conducting experiments which make sense only to him or pestering Lestrade and the other officers at the Yard.  
John occasionally accompanies him but things are still tense between them.   
Sherlock, unable to understand exactly what he’s done wrong, retreats back into his head and attempts to focus fully on the case at hand.   
John realises that the detective doesn’t know what he’s done wrong and that serves to make him even angrier than ever. Added to that is the fact that Sherlock is withdrawing from him before his very eyes and for the life of him he cannot think of anything to say which will make it better. He’s already said everything he can. He doesn’t want to change Sherlock, he loves the man he met all those months ago back at Barts. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for him when Sherlock exhibits particularly virulent sociopathic behaviour.   
John glances across the room at Sherlock, who is hunched over his microscope. He’d pretty much wished that somebody else would be killed. He’d hoped that another innocent person would have their life ripped from them just so he’d have more data to work with.  
John feels the anger starting to ripple through him again and forces himself to calm down. He is aware it is something more than just anger at Sherlock. It’s anger at himself. He knows what the detective is like, he has always known it. But he still hopes, God help him he still hopes that perhaps being with John had made him better sometimes. And deep down there is the fear that at some point Sherlock is just going to decide he’s bored with him after and leave. He takes deep breaths and returns to the book in his hands.  
‘John, vial,’ Sherlock commands from his position at the kitchen table. John glances up and looks around at him. The vials in question are perhaps two metres away from the detective, standing in full view on the kitchen counter.  
‘What?’ John asks, his tone acidic.  
‘Vial – I need a vial to put this safety-pin in.’  
‘They’re on the counter, get one yourself. I’m reading.’  
‘John, please, this is really important, I can’t distract myself by moving right now. Would you just get the vial?’  
The doctor stands up, his cheeks flushing red. ‘Saying please will not help this time, Sherlock! I’m not your slave! If you want something, you bloody well go and get it! I’m going to read in my bedroom.’  
He tucks the book under his arm and storms over to the door. Just as he reaches it and grasps the handle, he hears Sherlock speak softly from the kitchen.  
‘Your room?’  
John takes another deep breath, his eyes pricking with tears of anger and bitterness, and exits the living room without a word.  
Once he’s gone Sherlock pushes himself back slightly from the table. He glances down at his hand which is lying on the table and absently notices it’s shaking slightly. Irritably he clenches it into a fist to stop the tremors and exhales shakily. It’s happening. Just like he always knew it would. Why does nobody ever believe him? His and John’s initial relationship worked because they were friends and flatmates, occasionally colleagues. Nothing more. John could get annoyed with some of Sherlock’s sociopathic tendencies but everything would be okay because they didn’t have this pressure on them. And now... John is putting unreasonable demands on him. The doctor knows Sherlock can be insensitive and perhaps cruel during a case. His heart is telling him that yes, it would be awful to have a third victim, but his head and logic are telling him that it’s what he needs to solve the case. He simply doesn’t have enough information. The study of the safety-pins he’s embroiled in now has yielded no results. The crime scenes are free of any incriminating evidence.  
Sherlock sinks his curly head into his hands and yanks at the roots of his hair. He just needs a thread. Something, anything to join the dots. Once he has that, everything else will fall into place. But how can he focus, how can he think when he suspects his heart is splintering just a little?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night John heads up to bed after an incredibly stilted and awkward conversation. Sherlock watches him go and then flops back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes have passed he picks up his violin and begins to play; a soft, slow and mournful melody.   
It is four-thirty in the morning when he decides that a couple of hours sleep might not go amiss. Besides, if the killer is going to follow his earlier pattern they are approaching the end of the four day gap. The next day will be the thirtieth and the body of Michael Blackmoore was discovered on the twenty-sixth. Sherlock will need his rest if what he suspects actually happens.  
He pads up the stairs and hesitates at the door of their bedroom... no, apparently... John’s bedroom once more. A tightness squeezes at his heart and he leans his forehead against the doorjamb, alone in the dark and silent corridor. There is no sound from the room beyond the door. Slowly he curls his hand around the handle and then thinks better of it, withdrawing. He doesn’t want to do anything which will drive John further away and this might be too much.  
Swallowing heavily he continues on to his old bedroom, which now looks stark, bleak and cold. Shivering slightly he strips to his boxers and folds himself beneath the chilled duvet. And if a single tear manages to force its way out and trickle down into the fabric of the pillow, well, it’s dark and there’s nobody there to see.


	28. The Third Victim

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Third Victim

Sherlock wakes up early once more. His body is cosily warm compared to the chill he can feel in the air and, smiling, he nudges himself back against the comforting body he has gotten used to waking up beside. Only it isn’t there. Sherlock blinks slightly blearily and then sits up in bed, the duvet pooling around his waist. Immediately goosebumps rise on the skin of his chest. He isn’t in their bedroom, of course he isn’t. He’s in his old room because they fought. Immediately his heart plummets down to the pit of his stomach and he feels slightly ill.  
Getting out of bed he pulls on the clothes he abandoned on the floor and makes his way down to the living room, forcing himself to go past the room where John is sleeping without hesitation. By the time he has settled himself once more behind a mound of books the feeling of nausea has given way to a slight anger. He just doesn’t understand why John is behaving like this. Surely his time spent in the company of Sherlock should allow him to know why a third body is so important? If he doesn’t have sufficient information, how is he to find the killer? Why should he apologise when he has done nothing wrong? John promised that he didn’t want to change him. And yet now, only about a week into their fledgling relationship, he is already attempting to make Sherlock into something different.   
The detective sweeps the stack of books off the table violently and they fall to the floor with a resounding crash. He ignores the noise and sinks his head into his hands. He knew it. John is realising exactly what he has gotten himself into and soon enough he will leave. Oh, Sherlock is sure he’ll let him down gently. John is still John, after all. A decent, kind person. And that’s exactly the trouble. Because Sherlock very clearly isn’t.  
The sound of footsteps on the stairs alerts Sherlock to John’s imminent presence in the living room, yet he doesn’t raise his head. He can tell when the doctor enters the room, the air changes slightly, he finds his body twitching as if yearning towards the shorter man. Almost like a moth to a flame he thinks despondently.  
‘What the hell? Sherlock! It’s half past eight in the morning! It’s the holidays! Did it ever even occur to you that Mrs Hudson might be asleep and you’ve just disturbed her, not to mention me?’ John barely pauses for breath before continuing. ‘No, of course it didn’t. Stupid of me.’  
‘I did not mean to wake you, John,’ Sherlock replies flatly, his head remaining buried, cushioned by his arms.  
‘Of course you didn’t,’ John responds sharply before heading towards the kitchen to make his breakfast. Sherlock notices he doesn’t offer to make him a cup of tea.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John stands at the counter, intently watching the kettle come to the boil. He is so angry he can feel it pulsing through him, and the feeling scares him. He doesn’t want to feel this way toward Sherlock, not now, not ever. But at this minute he cannot even look at him.   
He supposes it doesn’t help that he was abruptly yanked from sleep by the resounding noise coming from the living room. Stress, helplessness, disappointment, tiredness and resentment is a poisonous combination he thinks absently, prodding at his tea with one hand while slotting bread into the toaster with the other.   
The way Sherlock is acting at the moment is almost like he feels John has done something completely unforgivable. But really, had he been so unreasonable? All he’d said was that he didn’t see what was so good about there being a third victim. Another loss of an innocent life. He’s said the same thing before and it hadn’t led to this much drama. What’s different? Why, this time, is Sherlock acting even more like a petulant seven-year-old than usual?  
John gives up on trying to figure it out. He came to the conclusion several months ago that he would never be able to work out the slender detective fully and so has given up trying. Usually he just rolls with the punches, takes it as it comes, but this... this is not his fault. And he’s damned if he’s going to apologise, yet again.   
Sitting down at the table he starts eating his toast and scans the morning paper which they get delivered. Sherlock has clearly brought it up from downstairs.  
‘There’s nothing interesting. I’ve already looked. Just the police making their usual inept statements about the murders.’  
John doesn’t bother responding but casts his eye quickly over the sections covering the murders before moving swiftly on to the sports at the back. He hears Sherlock huff from the living room – the detective has never understood his liking for sports and has always been scathing about John reading the sports pages.  
They spend the next few hours silent, John updating his blog and Sherlock tramping around the flat poking at various experiments at differing stages of completion and moaning to a silent audience about how boring everything is.  
Suddenly Sherlock sits upright on the couch and stares at the corkboard with all the information regarding the murders on it. He begins muttering to himself, his sharp eyes scanning the pinned scraps of paper and photos intently.  
Despite himself, John is interested and lowers his laptop. ‘Have you got something?’ he asks, forcing his tone to remain calm and uninterested.  
Sherlock jumps up from the sofa and sweeps a pale hand through his thick curls. John swallows slightly and a blush rises up in his cheeks as he forces his eyes downward. Now is not the time to get aroused. They’re fighting and he is angry at Sherlock. He wishes his body would get the memo.  
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I need to call Mycroft.’  
John blinks in astonishment. ‘Call... call Mycroft? Sherlock, have you gone mad? You never call Mycroft. Not even in an emergency.’  
Sherlock whirls around in the doorway and fixes John with an intense stare. ‘There is nothing wrong with me wanting to ring my older brother if I so wish, John. I hear family relationships are important to normal people,’ he pauses slightly before continuing, ‘and that is clearly what you want me to be. You should be happy.’  
With that parting jibe he disappears from the room, and John can hear him dialling and then that smooth, baritone voice murming, ‘Good afternoon, brother dear...’ before he gets out of earshot.  
John shakes his head in disbelief and attempts to return to his blog. He stares at what he has written so far.

Sherlock and I are involved in a highly unusual case – as normal. This time, however, the man himself doesn’t seem to even have a clue...

John smiles slightly sadly as he reads the last line and thinks how it could be attributed to something other than the case as well. Sherlock obviously doesn’t have any idea what to do when it comes to carrying on relationships.  
The detective re-enters the room, slipping his phone into his pocket as he does so. He strides to the door, pulls it open and begins to descend the stairs.  
‘Where are you going?’ John asks, raising his head from the laptop.  
‘Out,’ Sherlock responds curtly and John can hear him plucking his coat from the hook in the hallway and shrugging into it.  
‘Yes, but where?’ John repeats, trying not to let the irritation show too clearly in his tone.   
‘I’ve had an idea,’ is the enigmatic reply and then the front door closes. Dashing to the window John can see Sherlock stride down the pavement and hail a taxi just passing. He watches until the cab pulls away and turns left at the end of the street.  
If this is something to do with the case, he can’t help but feel hurt. Just because they are having a rough patch in their personal relationship shouldn’t mean that he gets cut out of cases. Or perhaps that’s him being naïve. Sherlock Holmes barely knows the basics of carrying on a functioning adult relationship, it might be too much to expect him to understand how to separate personal business and work.   
Jesus Christ. John sinks his head into his hands and attempts to remember how they even got in this position in the first place. Perhaps he should just apologise and they could move forwards like they’ve always done.  
Even as he has this thought, however, his stubborn streak flares up again making his eyes narrow at the empty apartment. It is always him saying sorry and building bridges. It’s never Sherlock. If the other man wants to carry on acting like a child, then that’s fine with him. Ruefully John ponders that this is almost like the relationship version of the driving game Chicken. All he can hope is that Sherlock loses his nerve first or there will be one hell of a collision. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock returns in the early hours of the next morning. John, too anxious despite his new-found resolution to remain cool and collected, leaps up from the chair where he has been sitting.  
‘Where the hell have you been, Sherlock?’  
‘Out,’ Sherlock responds, coming through the door clutching three large shopping bags.  
‘Shopping?’ John says incredulously. ‘Until one in the morning? While we’ve got a case?’ He frowns at Sherlock. ‘What’s going on?’  
‘Nothing you need to bother yourself about,’ Sherlock replies coolly and John notices that as always the detective is managing the whole cool and collected behaviour a lot better than him. This thought only serves to make him angrier.  
‘No, Sherlock. I want to know what’s going on. I haven’t heard a thing from you all day... we’re in the middle of a case and you decide to go shopping?’  
Sherlock levels him with a withering stare. ‘I thought our agreement was that I would reply to let you know I was okay if you texted or called me, John. You did neither all day and so I feel I hardly deserve the Spanish Inquisition.’  
Damn it. Another tactic of remaining uninterested backfiring on him. He’d longed to text or call Sherlock, just to make sure he was okay, at least twenty times in the last few hours. But his pride and his stubbon streak had ensured his phone remained unused. The tension slips out of his body and his shoulders slump as he looks at the fidgeting detective.   
‘I just want to know where you’ve been,’ he says finally.   
‘I can’t tell you,’ Sherlock replies instantly, his gaze lowered to the carpet. ‘Are you done?’  
His cold demeanour pierces John through and he has to fight to stop the prickling tears from overspilling. Angrily he turns away and moves towards the door to the staircase.  
‘Yes, I’m done. I’m going to bed. And don’t bother joining me tonight either, Sherlock. You can sleep on the couch or not at all for all I care.’  
Sherlock watches him go with an unfathomable look on his face and it is only when he hears the doctor’s tread on the stairs that he lets the mask crumble. At once his features become almost haggard and tired as he collapses onto the sofa cushions. Mycroft had been some help but there had been other preparations he’d needed to do. He wants more than anything to tell John, to let him in, but it is too dangerous. If his suspicion is right, and of course, it almost always is, he cannot say one word out loud to the doctor in case it gets into the wrong hands. All he can do is hope beyond hope that John’s time spent with him has instructed him at least a little in the art of deduction and observation. If it hasn’t then things might end very badly indeed, for both of them.  
And, as he reclines on the sofa, his hands clutched in his hair, he wonders yet again if all this subterfuge is the only way. He can’t risk losing John, but he has a feeling that it has started already and he is powerless to stop it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock wakes early the next day with a crick in his neck from the angle he fell asleep on the sofa. He’d had a disrupted night and had hardly slept at all.   
Today must be the day. Everything in the case so far points to this being the day the third body is found. And once he sees it, he expects everything will fall into place. He is almost there already, he just needs confirmation of his theory.   
He glances at the clock. Twenty-past-six. He expects Lestrade will call for him sometime during the morning or perhaps the late afternoon. He has time to make his few final preparations.   
First things first, however. Languidly he gets off the sofa and rolls his head a few times, attempting to work out the stiffness in his neck. Then he grabs the bags of shopping and heads to the bathroom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John is pleasantly surprised that he hasn’t been woken this morning by the screeching sounds of Sherlock’s violin or crashing and thumping from the living room as Sherlock flings books about. That didn’t mean he’d had a particularly restful night though. There is now something innately wrong with Sherlock not being in his bed, next to him. It feels too big and too empty, too cold without the other man.   
He feels a little guilty as he remembers how he’d snapped at Sherlock last night and resolves to, if not apologise, then at least be a little more accepting when he sees Sherlock downstairs. Swinging his legs out of bed he pulls on clean boxers, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and the jumper from Sherlock before making his way down to the living room.  
As he enters all thoughts of being nice evaporate instantly. The room is a complete bombsite with papers, books and notes scattered all over the floor. It seems that Sherlock had run out of room on the corkboard and now there are scrawled words starting on the wallpaper. From what he can see of the kitchen from his vantage point it looks as if there has been a rather nasty explosion, leaving God-knows-what splattered all over the walls.  
‘Sherlock!’ he shouts, moving into the middle of the living room. The man himself saunters out from the kitchen and John opens his mouth before the words die on his lips as he takes in what Sherlock is wearing.  
Instead of his usual pristine suit he is clad in baggy jeans and a jumper that looks at least two sizes too big and which hangs off his slender frame. In all their time together John has never, ever seen Sherlock wear a jumper.  
Instead of the planned diatribe about the state of the apartment all John says is, ‘What on earth are you wearing?’  
Sherlock looks vaguely affronted. ‘Clothes, John.’  
‘I can see that but, a jumper? What happened to your skin-tight suits?’  
Sherlock yawns and shrugs carelessly. ‘I fancied a change. Decided to see what you love so much about jumpers.’ He frowns in distaste. ‘Do they always itch at your skin? Because if so, I honestly don’t know what you see in them.’   
‘It’s probably the wool,’ John replies wearily, not even attempting to work out the detective’s twisted mind processes. It’s far too early in the morning. Instead he diverts the conversation onto a different tack, one which he has more experience in. ‘What did you do to the kitchen this time?’  
Sherlock rubs at the back of his neck and glances at the chaos behind him. ‘Ah. Yes. Well, I’m waiting on the call from Lestrade about the third body and I got a little bored. There was a very interesting theory in one of my journals about how a rabbit’s intestine reacts under...’  
John holds up a hand. ‘Right. Okay. Got it, rabbit intestine plus experiment plus Sherlock Holmes equals ruined kitchen.’ Then he narrows his eyes at the other man. ‘Hang on, how do you know there’s another body today? Has Lestrade contacted you already?’  
Sherlock scoffs and moves past John to sit on the sofa and flip open his laptop. ‘Of course not, John, don’t be obtuse. There has to be a third body today because that is the pattern. Four days between each, if I’m not mistaken.’ The tone of his voice says very obviously that he is certain he is not. ‘The last one was Boxing Day. Today is the thirtieth of December. Which means that sooner or later Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is going to be on the phone. Honestly, John.’   
Sherlock’s tone is casual but internally he is worried. If John hasn’t even picked up on the obvious now then how can Sherlock expect him to see when it will really matter? He has no doubt that it will matter, and very soon. Casually he turns away from the doctor but his expression is taut with anxiety.   
Raking a hand through his curls he frowns. Perhaps it won’t even happen the way he thinks it will. The killer might throw a curve-ball at them, in which case hopefully both their lives and probably somebody else’s won’t rely on John Watson’s powers of deduction.   
John fidgets as he watches the detective. There is something on Sherlock’s mind, something he is not telling him. But that’s nothing new, being kept out of the loop. Honestly he should be used to it by now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The call comes a couple of hours later. Sherlock rummages around in his pocket and answers quickly, the phone pressed tightly to his ear.  
‘Lestrade? Yes, I’m on my way. Text me the address.’  
John wearily gets to his feet and makes his way to the door, Sherlock right behind him. The slim phone in the detective’s hand chimes as the text from Lestrade with the address arrives.  
‘Where we off to then?’ John asks as they hail a taxi and he slides in after Sherlock.   
‘Bridle Lane, Piccadilly,’ Sherlock says in response to the question and also as an instruction to the cabbie who nods shortly and pulls away from the kerb.   
Lestrade meets them as they exit the car and walks them towards yet another alleyway which is cordoned off on the right side of the street.  
‘This one got called in about half an hour ago by an old woman. Her dog ran into it and she followed to call it back. She’s been sedated.’  
‘Sedated?’ Sherlock asks sharply.  
‘It’s... bad, Sherlock. It’s very bad.’ Lestrade says no more but John notices for the first time that the Inspector looks truly shattered. Added to that his expression is that of a person who has just seen something horrific.  
‘Bad?’ Sherlock repeats and speeds his steps towards the gaggle of curious onlookers. He gives them a quick once over and nods to himself before ducking under the cordon.   
The body lies a little way down, obscured from the public eye by a screen erected by the officers. John glances down at it and has to fight to stop himself from retching.   
The dirty ground around the body is covered with copious amounts of blood. The smell hangs tangy and thick in the air, almost suffocating in its potency. The cause for all the blood is obvious as John forces himself to look at the corpse once more. Or what is left of it.  
The head and torso of a man lie on the ground, the sightless gaze once more pointing at the sky. Vivid scarlet welts lace the pale, bluish skin. But that is nothing to the fact that the man’s arms and legs lie severed beside him, lined up in a row, each covered with identical copious stripes of red.  
‘Jesus,’ John chokes out. Lestrade, beside him, nods grimly. ‘No wonder the old lady had to be sedated.’   
‘I know,’ Lestrade acknowledges. ‘I’ve seen some pretty nasty things in my years on the force but this...’  
Sherlock, meanwhile, is whirling around the scene until he finds what he is looking for. ‘Pins,’ he mutters, clutching them in his gloved palm.  
‘Definitely the same killer then,’ John remarks rather pointlessly. Sherlock nods absently and casts his gaze over towards the gaggle of onlookers once again, his expression unfathomable.   
‘John, a word please,’ he mutters eventually, beckoning John over from Lestrade to the opposite side of the alleyway.  
‘What is it? Have you found something out?’  
‘You could say that. He’s here.’  
John blinks in surprise. ‘Who’s here?’  
‘The killer, John,’ Sherlock hisses irritably. ‘He’s watching.’  
‘What?’ John almost shouts and Sherlock pulls him futher down the alley, none too gently.  
‘Do you want the whole world to hear? Don’t shout.’  
‘How on earth do you know? And why haven’t you told Lestrade?’  
‘It wouldn’t do any good – there’s not enough evidence yet.’  
John pauses and eyes Sherlock narrowly. ‘Are you telling me that you’ve actually solved the case but there’s not enough evidence to arrest the killer?’  
‘Yes, John, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. We have to wait for him to make a move. I knew he’d be here today, he’s too curious to stay away. It’s personal, he wants to get to me.’  
John’s eyes widen in horror. ‘To you? But Moriarty...’  
‘Oh, obviously it’s not him. He’s dead. But he had a lot of admirers...’  
Sherlock looks as if he is about to continue when suddenly there’s a disturbance at the mouth of the alleyway. Lestrade is bolting towards the onlookers, a look of absolute panic on his face. People are shouting and a few screams rent the air. John makes as if to run towards the disturbance but is halted by Sherlock’s hand clutching at his sleeve.  
‘Wait,’ Sherlock hisses, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the alleyway. The cause of the panic becomes clearer as they slowly edge closer.   
A tall, slender blonde man John vaguely remembers seeing in the midst of the onlookers as they arrived is now standing apart from the others. He has a man pressed to his chest and a gun is aimed at his victim’s forehead. With a queasy jolt John recognises Anderson, the forensic officer is sweating and his eyes are wide and fearful.   
It becomes clear what has happened. Anderson, judging by the car pulled up at the curb with the driver’s door wide open, had just arrived on the scene. The killer, recognizing the official uniform chose him to hold hostage while he made his demands. And John has a hideous feeling that he knows that that demand will be.  
Lestrade is approaching the man, his hands raised in the air in peace. ‘Easy now. Why don’t you let Anderson go? We can talk about this.’  
The blonde man sneers, his thin lips curling. ‘You only have one thing I want and this Anderson is going to make sure I get it.’ He pauses and then laughs. ‘Or should I say him?’ His voice rings out in the cold air, his Irish accent piercing and mocking.  
John shoots a horrified glance at Sherlock who is watching the drama unfold, his granite features impassive.  
‘What are you talking about? Who do you want? You know you don’t have to do this, you’ll just make things worse for yourself, whoever you are.’ Lestrade gamely attempts to talk the man down and beside John Sherlock scoffs quietly.  
‘Lestrade really can be a prize A idiot sometimes. Who does he think he’s talking to? Some random member of the public who just happens to be carrying around a Browning? Moron.’  
‘Sherlock,’ John hisses automatically although his insides are writhing with panic.  
‘I want Sherlock Holmes and I want him now,’ the man replies, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘You’ve got a minute to surrender him or I kill this little worm.’ To emphasise his point he grinds the nozzle of his gun hard into Anderson’s temple and the man lets out a whimper of pain.  
Lestrade freezes and glances back to where John and Sherlock are approaching him.  
‘Don’t you dare, Sherlock,’ John mutters quietly. ‘You can’t give yourself up. Don’t you even think about it.’  
‘John’s right, Sherlock,’ Lestrade replies although is voice is wracked with anxiety. ‘We’ll find a way to get Mike out of there.’  
‘You won’t,’ Sherlock responds coolly although there is a slight note of tension in his voice. ‘The minute will go by and then Michael Anderson will have his brains splattered all over the pavement. Moriarty picks his henchmen wisely and this man will have no qualms in killing anybody who gets in his way in his quest to take me. I’m going.’  
‘No!’ John shouts, grabbing at Sherlock’s slender wrist as the detective starts to stride towards the blonde man. ‘Sherlock, please! I’ve lost you once, I can’t do it again.’ His face crumples slightly. ‘I can’t. What if you don’t come back?’  
‘Thirty seconds!’ the man cries out happily, watching the proceedings with what looks like genuine interest. ‘Better hurry up and make a decision boys!’  
‘You won’t lose me, John,’ Sherlock murmurs, his strange grey/blue eyes lasering into John’s face intently. It seems to the doctor that Sherlock is attempting to send him some kind of telepathic message, so keen is his stare. ‘Let go of my wrist. Anderson may be a pathetic, mentally challenged individual but even his blistering stupidity doesn’t mean he deserves to get murdered in my stead.’  
Lestrade blinks and grasps Sherlock’s shoulder suddenly. ‘You’re a good man, Sherlock,’ he says gravely and pulls the startled detective in for a quick hug. ‘We’ll get you out of this, I promise.’  
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock responds wryly, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’  
‘Ten seconds and counting! Ten, nine...’  
‘I’m coming,’ Sherlock calls and exits the alleyway, striding easily over to the terrified Anderson. ‘You can let him go. I won’t fight you.’  
‘How disappointing,’ the man smirks. ‘I was rather hoping for a shoot-out!’  
‘Are you done?’ Sherlock drawls. ‘Or can we get this little show on the road?’  
The man’s grin disappears to be replaced by an ugly scowl. ‘Fine.’ He turns to address the gathered police officers. ‘No-one follows us or I’ll blow his brains out. Understood?’  
Lestrade makes one last-ditch attempt to reason with the madman. ‘Just let Mike go, leave Sherlock alone and we’ll talk this out...’  
‘Boring,’ the man snaps, the muscles in his arm cording as he jams the gun hard against Anderson’s temple. Sherlock steps forward.  
‘This is dull. Let Anderson go.’  
With one swift move the blonde man shoves Anderson away from him, who, taken by surprise stumbles and almost falls. With the same impossibly quick movement, the man grabs Sherlock, yanking him towards him so he can place the gun steadily against the detective’s pale temple. Sherlock doesn’t fight him, indeed his face retains his mask of blank indifference. But John sees something different. For an instant, as their eyes connect, he can see the deeply concealed anxiety in the detective.  
Sherlock doesn’t look away from him even as he is dragged backwards forcibly and thrust into the passenger seat of a dark car pulled up a little way down the street. Before John can even blink the blonde man has thrown himself behind the wheel and the car is pulling away down the road with a screech of spinning tyres. It disappears. Sherlock is gone.


	29. A Resolution

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A Resolution

John stays rooted to the spot just staring at the point where the dark car containing Sherlock disappeared from view. He is barely aware of the chaos surrounding him, Lestrade snapping orders, the few onlookers who remain shouting questions which go resolutely unanswered in the confusion. All he can think is that Sherlock has been taken for the second time and he may never see him again. He may never see Sherlock Holmes alive again and he never even told him he was sorry. He hadn’t even said how much he loved him.  
His mind roves back over the petty argument they’ve been carrying on for the past few days and the treacherous tears begin pricking at his eyes. Clenching his fists he swallows hard and then whirls around to find Lestrade.  
‘I need a car,’ he says with no preamble. The Inspector turns to face him, his brown eyes glazed with exhaustion and worry.   
‘A car?’ he repeats blankly. ‘I didn’t know you could drive.’  
‘I haven’t for a long time,’ John responds, his calm tone surprising even himself. ‘But I’m sure I can manage. Get me a car. Now.’  
‘You can take Anderson’s,’ Lestrade says, gesturing towards it. ‘But where are you going? There’s no way you’ll ever follow him now, he’s got too much of a headstart. The best thing we can do is head back to the Yard and...’  
‘No,’ John says forcefully, his eyes narrow. ‘There’s no time. And I know exactly where Sherlock is.’ He withdraws his mobile from his pocket and swiftly accesses the internet. Briefly he thanks God that he spent all that time learning how his gift from Sherlock works. Pulling up the GPS system he types in a few details and then a blinking red dot appears on a tiny map of London, heading steadily northward.  
Lestrade gazes at the screen, his expression stupified.  
‘How...?’ he begins.  
‘Sherlock bought me a new phone fitted with a GPS system for Christmas,’ John says. ‘He got one for himself as well so that I’d always know where he is. I don’t need to tail that pyscho. Unless Sherlock’s phone is moving of its own volition, this tells me exactly where he is.’  
‘That’s brilliant,’ Lestrade breathes.  
‘I’ll text you the co-ordinates when I get there,’ John says, his tone now fully that of the Captain and not the Doctor. ‘You’ll have to hurry. I’ve got no idea what I’m gonna find, but Sherlock seems to have been anticipating this.’  
‘He didn’t seem that surprised,’ Lestrade acknowledges, rubbing at the back of his neck. ‘Fine. I’ll put a team together and we’ll make a move as soon as we know where you are.’  
‘Ring Mycroft as well,’ John says, already moving towards Anderson’s abandoned car. ‘At this moment I don’t trust myself not to scream at him down the phone and I’m sure that won’t help matters. Tell him what’s happened, he’ll probably know already of course.’  
‘I don’t have his number,’ Lestrade calls after John who is now swinging himself into the driver’s seat. Swiftly John fires off a text containing Mycroft’s home and work numbers, his email and his fax address.   
‘Remember Lestrade, hurry,’ John says before he buckles himself in, sets his phone in the conveniently placed holder stuck to the windscreen and slams the door shut.  
It has been years since he drove anywhere, but it’s like learning to ride a bike. You never forget. Automatically he completes the initial manoeuvres, pulls out and drives off, checking every so often on that blinking red light.  
Unfortunately he is constrained by the law and so numerous red lights and London’s notorious bad traffic slow him down considerably. By the time fifteen minutes have passed, the light showing Sherlock’s location has stopped, meaning his kidnapper has reached his destination. He must have taken a far quicker route than John, or perhaps just ignored some lights, because John is only about three streets away from where he started.   
Cursing he taps his fingers against the wheel and stares blankly out of the windscreen, trying to stop the tumultous panicked thoughts which riot around his mind. He cannot stop the what ifs? and if this damned traffic doesn’t move soon he finds himself contemplating abandoning Anderson’s car, snatching his mobile and running to the co-ordinates of Sherlock’s phone. It would probably be quicker.  
After a couple of minutes, however, the traffic blessedly starts to move and John accelerates with rather more force than is strictly neccessary, startling an elderly lady doing her shopping on the other side of the street.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In another twenty minutes he reaches the co-ordinates of the little dot. As he pulls in he glances around. It appears to be a derelict warehouse right on the outskirts of London in an old abandoned industrial district.   
Sitting in the car he takes a few minutes to compose himself, breathing deeply and steadily. He won’t allow himself to go in there half-cocked. From the look of the Irish man he is completely unbalanced and it could only take a wrong breath of wind to set him off. Swiftly taking his phone off the windscreen he taps out a quick text to Lestrade informing him of Sherlock’s whereabouts. Having done that he takes another breath and gets out of the car.  
The winter wind whistles eerily around the deserted lot. He can hear the faint roar of traffic from the nearest road but it is muted. Instead there is the whispery rustle of old newspapers and rubbish bags blowing across the cracked and stained tarmac. The warehouse rises in front of him, its large windows boarded up and covered in graffitti.   
John scans the building, his soldier instincts kicking in. It’s big and he has no idea how many entrances there are. His training would say that he do a recce from all sides and then decide the best way to proceed but he doesn’t have the time. The blonde man could be seriously hurting Sherlock while he wastes time scanning windows.  
There is a metal door standing slightly ajar in the warehouse wall to his right. He heads towards that, jogging silently, his gun at the ready. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The corridor he finds himself in is dark and gloomy. The light coming in from the open door behind him provides little illumination. Carefully he paces towards what he can dimly perceive is a door at the other end. As he goes he glances from left to right but there are no other doorways.   
Reaching the end of the corridor he pauses and checks his gun quickly, making sure the safety catch is off. Slowly he reaches out a hand, which he is pleased to see is completely steady, and turns the handle on the door.   
The room beyond is vast and John imagines that this is the actual warehouse, going by the boxes stacked up to the ceiling. They range around the walls, dusty and decrepit. The middle of the room is empty and straightaway John sees something which makes his heart leap into his throat and then plummet right back down to somewhere near his kidneys. There is one lightbulb switched on in the middle of the room and it shines down upon two figures, standing motionless. Sherlock and right next to him, John draws in a quick breath, Mrs Hudson. His landlady hasn’t seen him yet. She is staring at a point straight in front of her but upwards slightly, near the roof. Her expression is one of abject terror, her lips drawn into a thin line, her eyes wide and panicky.   
Sherlock, however, has his gaze fixed on John. He stares at him but makes no move to speak. John frowns. What is going on? From what he can see neither Sherlock nor Mrs Hudson are restrained in any way so...  
Ah. Of course. John’s tactical mind is working quickly and he realises almost immediately why neither of them are moving. The blonde is ensconced in a room, probably right above John’s head, right where Mrs Hudson is staring. No doubt he has snipers or something trained on them. One move and they’ll die.  
No sooner has this thought crossed his mind than he notices the tiny red dots, almost invisible in the harsh glare of the overhead light.   
Taking a deep breath, John squares his shoulders and tightens his grip around his gun. If this new pyschopath has snipers, John doubts very much that his gun will be much use against him but it makes him feel better having it. He catches Sherlock’s eyes and without moving his gaze, strides forward into the open space.  
Immediately a grating Irish accent booms around the warehouse. John’s eyes flick from side to side. A tannoy system, no doubt.  
‘Ah... Johnny boy. What a pleasure. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you to find your way here so fast.’  
‘I’m just full of surprises,’ John says, turning around slowly and raising his eyes. It is as he suspected. There is a room above. John can see two snipers, one aimed at Sherlock and the other at Mrs Hudson. In the middle is the blonde man, standing near the windows which look out onto the warehouse.   
‘Allow me to introduce myself. Jack McGinty.’ The man makes a mock bow at the windows. ‘At your service.’  
John cocks his head and his eyebrows raise. ‘Really? Then why don’t you just let Mrs Hudson and Sherlock go?’  
A maniacal chuckle reverberates around the warehouse. John has to suppress a shiver.   
‘Oh, but that would be no fun! And if my dearly departed mentor and I have anything in common, it’s our appreciation of a good game.’  
John smiles humourlessly. ‘Ah. So that’s what it is? You’re one of Moriarty’s deluded little henchmen? I thought we’d got rid of you all when we got Sherlock from his clutches the last time.’  
McGinty’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to the glass of the window. ‘Sadly not. Mister Moriarty brought me over from Ireland as his protege. That night at the Manor I was out doing some... business for him. I didn’t realize what had happened until I returned and found it deserted. I looked up some of the security footage that had been left. I know exactly what happened.’  
John smirks. ‘Then you’ll know that your mentor was no match for Sherlock, his brother or me. Just give it up. Let them go.’  
McGinty wags a finger from the window, although his smirk is ever so slightly diminished.  
‘Nuh-uh! You’ve got a choice to make, Johnny boy!’  
‘Oh really?’ John attempts to sound nonchalant but he has a feeling that his words may have shaken slightly. McGinty grins, baring all his teeth.  
‘Indeed. I’m going to give you five minutes to make up your mind. You can choose. Sherlock or Mrs Hudson.’  
John takes a step backwards, his eyes immediately flicking to Sherlock’s face. The detective is not giving anything away, although a muscle twitches in his cheek. Mrs Hudson is sobbing quietly into her handkerchief, every so often her hand reflexively rubs at her chest at the exact spot of the sniper dot.  
‘Right. You give me five minutes, I make a decision and then you shoot one of them? Is that it?’   
McGinty laughs delightedly. ‘Oh no! No, Johnny you have it all wrong! I give you five minutes and you make up your mind which one of them you are going to shoot. If, at the end of the time limit, you haven’t decided then I’ll shoot them both.’  
John feels his heart stutter slightly. ‘What?’  
‘Oh, surely you’re not deaf. Don’t you see how perfect this is? My dearly departed mentor didn’t achieve his life’s wish of defeating Sherlock and so now I am enacting it for him. Although, I flatter myself, in a manner perhaps a little more imaginative. After all, I am not going to kill Sherlock. I’m going to make you do it. Unless, of course, you decide to kill the old lady.’ He winks at Mrs Hudson. ‘No offense, dear.’  
John’s mind is racing. This is an impossible choice. How on earth is he supposed to choose between them? And yet, despicably, his heart is already screaming at him that he has made a choice. Sherlock. It will always be Sherlock. But he can’t. Mrs Hudson is like a mother to him. The thought of shooting her is... unthinkable. He can’t do it. He won’t do it. Distraction. That’s what he needs. Psychopaths always love to talk. Desperately he speaks.  
‘You were the killer. You killed all those men.’  
McGinty frowns slightly. ‘Indeed. I had hoped that you and the gorgeous detective there would have figured it out a little earlier. After all, I deliberately chose victims who bore a certain resemblance, shall we say, to dear Sherlock. And then, of course, there was my calling card.’  
‘The safety pins,’ John says.  
‘Exactly! The safety pins! Of course I was there the night that Sherlock managed to escape, very innovatively, I might add, by the use of a safety pin. Naturally he was recaptured, nobody could get the better of my mentor.’  
‘Clearly they could,’ John responds dryly. ‘He’s dead.’  
Jack’s face contorts with anger. ‘It’s your fault! You and him! He was the greatest man alive and you... you took him from me!’ With a visible effort he gets himself under control again and forces a smile. ‘Tell me, Sherlock. Did you manage to get the clues? The way they died?’  
For the first time Sherlock speaks, and the sound sends an electric jolt straight through John. That voice still has the power to stop him in his tracks.  
‘Naturally. Although it took me slightly longer than it should have done, perhaps.’ His tone is unhurried and not panicked. Exactly what John would expect. He doesn’t look around at him. If he does, he will be lost.  
‘And?’ McGinty taunts from his window.  
‘James Hammond, the first victim. Killed by having all the bones in his body broken. A reference to me having two fingers on my hand crushed by Moriarty. Michael Blackmoore, drowned. Again, a reference to another torture. This time referring to the fact that I had buckets of ice cold water thrown over me at two-hour intervals during my captivity.’ At this John starts a little and glances over at Sherlock, his eyes filled with agony. He hasn’t heard this before and a little piece of his heart shatters at this fresh information of what Sherlock had to go through. Of course he knew what the detective had a fear of water after that incident with the rain but...  
Sherlock is carrying on, his voice now carrying only the slightest hint of strain. ‘The third victim, as yet unknown to me. Cut into pieces. A little over-exaggeration on your part, one would think. A reference to the fact I was flogged, I imagine.’  
McGinty claps slowly, the echoing sound ringing through the warehouse like some macarbre death knoll. ‘Oh, well done Sherlock!’ He sighs theatrically. ‘Right, well. On with the decision. On your mark, Johnny boy. Go!’  
And with that he ostentatiously raises a stopwatch to the window, presses the start button, and stands back, his arms folded. ‘Who’s it going to be?’  
For the first time John turns to face Sherlock and Mrs Hudson properly. His landlady is still shuddering, her handkerchief to her face. He takes a step towards her and then falters, unable to think.  
‘You choose him, John,’ she mutters, her face still buried, words muffled. ‘He’s the love of your life, dear. I’ll never forgive you if you choose an old woman like me over Sherlock. Besides, he’s a bona fide genius, isn’t that what they say nowadays? How often does a mind like his come along?’ She removes the handkerchief although her lips are wobbling slightly. ‘I wish you didn’t have to make this decision, dear. But you know I won’t blame you. Choose Sherlock.’  
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson,’ Sherlock interrupts smoothly. ‘John is not going to shoot you.’ He turns. ‘John, there isn’t even a choice to make here...’  
‘Shut up! Don’t say another word, Sherlock! I’m not shooting either of you!’  
‘Oh, how tiresome,’ McGinty coos from the tannoy. ‘Is that your decision then, Johnny boy? Because if so...’ With a sudden bolt of alarm John sees the red light on Sherlock’s chest flicker.  
‘No! No, it isn’t my decision, goddamnit!’  
‘Language,’ McGinty murmurs reprovingly but the light steadies. John takes a deep breath in through his nose and closes his eyes, attempting to think. There has to be something! Anything to get them out of this mess. Lestrade, of course, but what if he arrives too late? John must have already used up at least a minute of his time. As soon as he attempts to think clearly, however, all his mind throws up is an image of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson lying prone on the dirty floor of the warehouse, blood pooling around their still bodies and it will be all his fault...  
‘Four minutes, Johnny!’  
His eyes flash open. Sherlock and his landlady still stand before him. Mrs Hudson has resumed her quiet crying. Sherlock, however, remains a statue. His eyes are burning as they laser into John’s face. It seems as if he is giving himself some kind of internal seizure with the intensity of his stare. John gazes back at him, his brows knitting together in confusion. He knows this look. This is the look Sherlock gives him when he wants him to work something out. To deduce.   
John shifts slightly and turns resolutely away from that distracting, devastating stare. He cannot even hope to think clearly when Sherlock’s eyes are beaming into him – that flickering, oceanic gaze.   
Taking a few deep breaths he walks a few feet away. Right. Sherlock wishes him to deduce something. Grimacing he cudgels his mind into some semblance of working order.   
The minutes tick by and the warehouse remains silent. Jack McGinty seems content to observe from his window but absently John reflects that it cannot be very interesting for him. Hardly the drama-soaked finale he must have hoped for. Two motionless people and one silent, pacing man.   
‘One minute!’ McGinty cries out suddenly, sounding gleeful. ‘Better hurry up and make a decision Johnny, unless you want to lose them both!’  
John starts. A minute? How did he lose that time so quickly? And still no hint of Lestrade’s arrival. No noise of cars pulling up outside.   
‘John... please, just think about this!’ Sherlock speaks for the first time since John told him to be quiet. Knowing he will regret it, John turns slowly and looks at him. Sherlock’s hair is ruffled and chaotic, indicating he has run his hands through it repetitively. John’s heart contracts slightly as he takes in the baggy jumper, the slender frame it hides and those piercing eyes.   
How could I have wasted so many days in that pointless argument? I might lose him today and what have I spent the past few days doing? Punishing him for being himself. Horror-struck John finds that his eyes are filling slightly and he rubs the hand not holding his gun against his face, wiping the errant tears away.  
‘John...’ Sherlock says again, his velvety deep voice reverberating around the warehouse. ‘Please... think.’ His tone shakes slightly for the first time and John wants nothing more than to run over to him, take him in his arms and kiss him. To apologise a thousand times over for all the things he said.   
He takes a few faltering steps towards him and then stops abruptly.   
‘Thirty seconds!’  
His mind is a blank. A total blank. The gun wavers in his hand. Desperately he listens for the sound of cars pulling up outside. The sound of doors being flung open, of the heavy hand of the law coming to their aid. But there is nothing. The only noise is that of McGinty’s half-smothered chuckles and Mrs Hudson’s sobs. He has to make a choice. He has to. Otherwise they will both die. There is no way he can shoot McGinty from here. The Irishman may be a maniac but he is a smart maniac.   
So this is his choice. Either he kills Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. Or he loses them both.   
From above McGinty starts a countdown in a highly gleeful tone of voice.  
John turns once more to face the love of his life and his landlady. Mrs Hudson meets his eyes.  
‘Oh John...’ she says once before burying her face in her handkerchief. John shifts his gaze to Sherlock. The detective stands, and to anyone who does not know him like John does, he seems completely unaffected by his current predicament. But John Watson sees a different story. The Sherlock he sees in front of him is highly nervous and also... something nobody else would ever attribute to the detective... highly emotional. John can tell by the slight twitching in his left cheek, that great expanse of pale skin upon which John has bestowed so many kisses in their recent fledgling relationship.  
John raises the gun, steady this time, but for a slight shake in his wrist. He takes aim. The finest shot in his regiment. And fires. A body crumples to the ground.


	30. A Surprise Result

Chapter Thirty

A Surprise Result

‘Wow! Well, I don’t think anybody here was expecting that! Good show, Johnny boy! You know, I was so sure you were going to pick the old lady.’  
John barely hears him. He hardly notices that Mrs Hudson has crumpled to the floor. All he can see is Sherlock lying motionless on the dirty ground of the warehouse. Oh God. What if he made a mistake? His heart in his mouth he runs over, his legs shaking underneath him. He feels like he might vomit and his pulse is erratic, leaping and stuttering in his chest.   
‘Sherlock?’ he says frantically, crashing to his knees beside him. ‘Answer me, okay. Tell me you’re alright.’   
‘Better and better,’ McGinty calls over the tannoy. ‘You do know you just shot him, don’t you Johnny? I doubt he’s okay. What’s the matter, did you have some kind of temporary aneurism or something?’  
‘Oh John...’ Mrs Hudson whimpers from somewhere to his right. ‘You should have picked me...’   
‘Shut up, Mrs Hudson,’ John snaps, too drawn with panic to bother with politeness. He turns his attention back to the dark-haired detective. Blood is starting to seep out, spreading in a pool.   
John you’re a doctor for God’s sake! his mind screams at him. Check his pulse! Cursing his own blind stupidity, John snatches at Sherlock’s limp wrist and presses two fingers to the soft inside skin. Lowering his head he lets out a loud exhale of absolute relief. A steady beat paces away softly. Satisfied that he hasn’t actually killed Sherlock he turns his attention to the blood matting in the detective’s curly hair.   
When he fell he must have cracked his head pretty hard. Anxiously, and trying to be as gentle as he can, John lifts Sherlock’s head and his fingers skim the back of the detective’s skull. There is a wound there, it is fairly deep, but as far as John can tell, not life threatening. Just so long as Lestrade and his team get here before McGinty decides he is going to kill Mrs Hudson and John just for a laugh anyway. He needs more time and pretty soon the psychopath is going to realise that Sherlock isn’t actually dead.   
As he gazes into Sherlock’s slack features wondering what on earth to do now, suddenly the eyes open and he is meeting that intense blue stare. He goes to speak but Sherlock moves his head in the tiniest of motions. No.   
His own brows knit in puzzlement. Sherlock frowns in exasperation and John has to stifle a laugh. Even at a moment like this Sherlock can still find time to express his irritation at John’s density. Sherlock raises his gaze a few times upwards, as if indicating his own head, and then goes limp once more in John’s arms, his eyes closing. John automatically draws him closer to his chest and stares into the middle distance, attempting to think.   
Such is the level of silent communication John and Sherlock have acquired throughout their partnership that it takes John a little less than three seconds to figure it out. He realises that Sherlock has been blocked from McGinty’s view ever since John ran over to check he was alive. If he is very subtle...  
Forcing himself to shake, as if from grief, very slowly John inches Sherlock’s body upwards, disguising the movement as much as he can, so that eventually Sherlock’s midriff is directly over the pool of blood which has leaked from his head. It wouldn’t fool anyone at close quarters but from a distance when he lays Sherlock back down it does look like the blood has spread from his chest. Still convulsing with his pseudo grief, John dabs his fingers in the blood on the floor and spreads as much as he can over the jumper, right where the hole in the fabric marks where the bullet entered. The material is charred around the edges and beneath it he can see, thank Christ he was right, the dark sturdy material of the bulletproof vest. The shiny metal of the bullet is just peeking out from where it has embedded itself. John finds himself shaking for real this time, the panic still close to the surface. If he’d been wrong that would have been in his heart...  
‘You alright down there, Johnny? You haven’t fainted from grief have you?’  
John ignores him and quickly casts his gaze over the scene now below him, hidden from McGinty’s sight by the curve of his body. It’ll do. It will have to until Lestrade arrives. Now he has to act to save all their lives.  
It isn’t hard for him to think to himself that he’d been wrong, that Sherlock hadn’t had a bulletproof vest on, and that the love of his life is actually lying dead on the floor beside him. The tears come thick and fast and he lets them stream down his cheeks, unchecked. Slowly he gets to his feet, the knees of his jeans smeared with Sherlock’s blood, and turns around.   
‘You bastard.’ He is unable to think of what to say so just lets his thoughts come out audibly. He is pleased that his voice shakes. McGinty grins as John sees his gaze travel to the bloodstained figure of Sherlock, the blood on John’s jeans, and back up to the tears streaming down John’s face.  
‘To be honest, I really didn’t expect you to shoot him, John. I suppose he just didn’t mean that much to you did he?’  
‘You will never understand how much Sherlock means to me,’ John says steadily although the tears still fall (nothing he can do about that, apparently).  
‘Meant, dear, meant. After all, you will have to get used to using the past tense concerning him now, won’t you?’  
John scowls but says nothing. He is desperately wracking his brains for anything which will keep McGinty talking until Lestrade arrives. At no point can the psychopath’s attention start wandering to focus on Sherlock closely. But it seems he doesn’t have to worry about that just yet. McGinty’s gaze is still fixed on him, only now he has started tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully.  
‘Now, the question is, what are we going to do with you and the old lady? Can’t have you wandering off to your policeman friends can we?’  
‘You said if I made a choice you’d let us go,’ John says, grateful for the nudge McGinty has unwittingly given him.   
‘Oh, I did, didn’t I?’ McGinty sounds genuinely surprised. ‘How dull of me. My dear departed mentor would be most disappointed.’ He grins and then the smile drops from his face as he stares at John through the glass. ‘You do realize there’s no way you and the woman are getting out of here alive, don’t you? You cannot honestly be telling me you thought I would just let you go?’  
John’s mind is starting to fog with panic. All he can really think about is Sherlock, possibly bleeding to death on the floor behind him. Hurry up, Lestrade! Suddenly he hears it, very faint, almost inaudible. The sound of tyres as what sounds like a couple of cars pulls up outside. He glances quickly up at McGinty. The man is busy fiddling around with something and appears not to have heard anything amiss.  
John tries to tamp down his rising hope. If McGinty looks up and sees it on his face he’ll be in trouble for sure.  
The muted sound of car doors shutting reaches his ears and then there are footsteps in the same passage he used for entrance. A couple of seconds later and then John sees the muzzle of a gun peeking out of the door which is standing ajar. Lestrade’s face follows it around cautiously. For a moment their eyes lock. Then John glances up to check on McGinty. He has no idea what the psychopath is doing but it is enough that his attention is not on John for the moment. Quickly John jerks his head upwards and stares fixidly at the window of the room holding McGinty. When he glances back at Lestrade he sees the Inspector nod once and then withdraw.   
No doubt he will now be instructing his team to find a way to the upper level. John just has to keep McGinty talking until they can get there.  
‘Where did you meet Moriarty then? At some sort of club in Ireland for psychos?’   
Anger flashes across McGinty’s face, twisting it, turning the previously uniform and handsome features harsh and ugly.  
‘Don’t you call him that!’ he spits, and even from the distance he’s at, John can see the spittle flying from his lips. ‘You’re not even worthy to speak his name!’  
‘He was... important to you, then?’ John asks, forcing himself to sound understanding and sympathetic. The change in McGinty is remarkable. His features smooth out and he smiles widely.  
‘You understand! You understand what a great man he was... a mind like his will never come again. To listen to him talk was blissful. He was such a brilliant master of words.’  
Sorry boys! I’m sooo changeable!  
John nods frantically, casting a quick surreptitious look back at Sherlock as he does so. The pool of blood has spread, but thankfully not by much. John has no way of knowing whether Sherlock is still unconscious or if he’s listening to every word they say.  
‘So how did you meet him?’ John asks casually, tilting his head to one side as he gazes up at McGinty. As he waits for an answer he strains his ears, trying to listen for any hint that the police team are close to McGinty’s lofty hideout.  
‘At a young offender’s institute in Ireland orginally,’ McGinty replies, his tone nostalgic and almost wistful. ‘I’ll never forget it. He came up to me and said...’  
But what Moriarty had said to Jack McGinty all those years ago John would never know. At that moment the door to McGinty’s left started to bulge inward, as if a bulky shoulder was pressing heavily against it. Then there was the shout, audible even to John.  
‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’  
John watches as McGinty’s expression loses its dreamy quality and spins back to cold, psychotic fury.  
‘You tricked me!’ he roars, making John press his hands to his ears. It seems that McGinty is beyond words, as the next sound to come through the intercom is a mere scream of inarticulate rage. Faster than anybody has any right to move, he has bolted towards the sniper at the front of the room and has aimed down at the ground floor of the warehouse.   
His first shot goes wide, presumably due to the way his hands are shaking with fury. However John sees the bullet chip off the stone perilously close to Sherlock. He has to move away, he cannot risk McGinty aiming for him and accidentally hitting the detective. At least now he knows that Sherlock is genuinely unconscious. Anybody would have reacted slightly if a bullet had come that close to hitting them. They would have flinched. Sherlock remains still.   
On the one hand, this is good. If Sherlock had reacted to the bullet, McGinty would have known his first attempt at taking Sherlock’s life had failed. On the other hand John is severely worried now about the detective’s continued bloodloss. Lestrade’s team need to end this... fast.  
John watches as the psychopath takes aim once again, and this time it looks as if his hands are steadier. John dances from side to side, knowing that it is far harder to hit a moving target. McGinty squeezes the trigger and John hears the bullet whine past him.   
Lestrade! Hurry up! he screams inside his head. He can see the door behind McGinty splintering but they are not yet through and McGinty is already priming the gun again. This time however, it is not John he is aiming at.   
Almost in slow motion, John sees McGinty swing the sniper around on its tripod to fixate on Mrs Hudson, who is still collapsed on her knees, presumably too frightened to move. John’s eyes widen in horror.  
His legs feel anchored to the floor as he forces them to sprint across the short distance in time. Mrs Hudson is staring at the floor, her hands pressed tightly over her ears. As John runs towards her he can see tears dripping onto the stone floor of the warehouse.  
Crack!   
The bullet leaves the gun. And John is too far away. Desperately he launches himself through the air.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John comes to in a haze of pain. Dimly he is aware that the left hand side of his head is throbbing. That is nothing compared to the pain in his already injured shoulder, however. He forces his eyes to open. He is lying sprawled on the warehouse floor. Blearily he sees Mrs Hudson being escorted out of the warehouse by two police officers. One of them has an arm around her shoulders.  
There is a man crouched next to him, and his face blurs in and out of focus.  
‘John? John Watson? Can you hear me?’  
John squints blearily at him. ‘Lestrade?’  
The Inspector’s concerned eyes relax in relief. ‘Thank God. For a moment I thought you were gonna cop it, pardon the expression.’  
John forces himself to concentrate. ‘What happened?’  
‘We got through the door just in time. You took a bullet to your shoulder and smacked your head. He was just aiming again when we grabbed him. They’re taking him out now.’  
John struggles to prop himself up on his good side and hears the screams and curses. Dimly he sees a thrashing figure being dragged out in cuffs.  
‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen! He’s supposed to be dead! They are all are! You’ll pay for this John Watson and Sherlock Holmes!’  
Lestrade smiles a little. ‘He’s a been shouting like that ever since we told him that Sherlock’s alive.’  
Sherlock. John instinctively tries to sit upright but has to fall back, agony spearing through the nerves near his shoulder. Lestrade places a calming restraining hand on his chest.   
‘Don’t try to move too much. The paramedics are on their way.’  
‘Sherlock,’ John rasps. ‘Is he okay?’  
‘I think so. As you probably know he took a nasty hit to the back of the head, presumably when he fell after being shot. It’s a good thing he was wearing a vest otherwise this McGinty character’s bullet would have gone straight to the heart.’  
‘My bullet,’ John corrects absently, attempting to crane his head around to catch a glimpse of the detective.  
Lestrade rocks back on his heels. ‘What? Your bullet?’  
‘Yes, I shot him.’  
‘You shot him. You shot Sherlock?’  
‘Well, it was either him or Mrs Hudson.’  
‘Ah, and you knew he was wearing a vest.’  
John winces. ‘Well, I was ninety-nine percent sure.’  
Lestrade looks as if he is about to say something more but is halted by the sound of urgent footsteps. He glances up and behind.  
‘Ah, the paramedics are here.’ He beckons them over and they crouch over John, examining his injuries.  
‘You’ve been shot in this area before, sir?’ one of them confirms, running a gentle hand over the new entry wound in John’s shoulder.  
‘Yes, Afghanistan,’ he mutters, twisting his head again to try and get a look at Sherlock. ‘Is Sherlock, is he...?’  
‘One of my colleagues is with him now, sir,’ the female paramedic confirms, giving him a warm smile. ‘But his injuries are not as serious as yours. Although the tissue in your shoulder is already sensitive, therefore making the wound feel more painful than it should, it is still a fairly dangerous injury. We’re going to get you into the ambulance now, okay?’  
‘Sherlock, is he going with me?’  
She glances over at her colleagues and there is a moment of silent communication between them. ‘I’m sure we can fit you both in.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John remembers little of the ride to the hospital. He spends the time staring at Sherlock, with Sherlock gazing back at him silently. Around them the paramedics work at patching them up but they could be mere ghosts for all John notices them. All he can focus on are Sherlock’s luminous eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Next morning finds John and Sherlock seated back in the living room at 221b Baker Street. The sniper bullet has been dug out of John’s shoulder, the wound been stitched and then swathed in an abundance of gauze and bandage. The cut on his temple was superficial and only required a swabbing of disinfectant and a patch taped over it.  
Sherlock sits opposite him. Much to his annoyance the wound on the back of his head required a couple of stitches and the doctors had to shave off a small amount of hair. John couldn’t care less. All that matters is that Sherlock is here with him, very much alive. He knows he will have nightmares about the moment he aimed and fired his own gun at the man he loves more than life itself.   
‘Well, another case successfully closed,’ Sherlock announces eventually. ‘When’s the next one?’  
John raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Neither of us are in any state to go off chasing criminals. For at least a week, anyway.’  
Sherlock huffs and fiddles with the gauze taped over the wound on his head. John frowns at him.  
‘Leave it,’ he warns.   
‘It’s itchy,’ Sherlock complains.   
Silence falls once more. John is desperately searching for any way in which he can apologise for everything. He still remembers all too well the stupid argument which led to them not talking to each other properly right up until the point when Sherlock sacrificed himself to McGinty’s clutches in order to save Anderson. Then Sherlock, as ever, solves the problem for him.  
‘Do you still hate me, John?’ he asks softly, his piercing eyes boring into John’s. The doctor flinches back, shocked.  
‘Hate you? Sherlock, I could never hate you. Never.’  
The detective is silent and shifts his gaze to the worn red carpet beneath his feet. Ridiculous though his statement was, John is nevertheless glad for the opening Sherlock has given him. He gets slowly to his feet and moves stiffly and painfully over to where Sherlock sits on the sofa. He kneels in front of him and takes the detective’s hands in his.  
‘Sherlock, listen to me. I am so sorry we fought. And over something so absolutely stupid. I can’t even remember the details...’  
‘You were angry at my callous behaviour regarding the third victim,’ Sherlock responds immediately. ‘As far as I can recall you said... “I just don’t get how you can feel these things you profess to feel for me and yet act with such indifference.” And also, “I’m just sick of you treating murder victims like they’re the latest clue in some freakish game show.”’  
John blinks. He knows that Sherlock’s memory is legendary but still, he must have been really hurt by those words to have remembered them all this time. The detective has resumed staring at the carpet.   
‘I knew this would happen.’ He raises a blank stare to John. ‘Perhaps we’re just too incompatible for this to work.’  
John shakes his head furiously. ‘No, Sherlock. No, we’re not. Yes, we have differences of opinion, but every couple do.’  
‘You’ve said that before,’ Sherlock says. ‘You keep saying it doesn’t matter that we argue, but it obviously does. I told you this is how it would end up. I will say or do something, you’ll get offended and I won’t understand what I’ve done wrong. We’ll then end up ignoring each other for days. I just don’t see how we are ever going to work. We should go back to just being friends.’  
John’s veins feel as if they’ve turned to ice. He can’t think clearly, he tries desperately to process what Sherlock is saying in that dull, blank voice of his. He stares agonised at Sherlock. Inadvertantly his hands clench harder to the detective’s.  
‘Are... are you... breaking up with me? Sherlock?’ he whispers brokenly. ‘Is that what’s happening here?’  
Sherlock shudders under his grasp and finally drags his head up to look into John’s face. John can see his own pain mirrored on those pale features. ‘John,’ he begins, his voice low and husky. ‘I could never break up with you. Literally, I just couldn’t. I’m offering you a chance to get out now. I would never blame you for it.’ He gives John a little hurt smile. ‘You’ve lasted a lot longer than many other people in my life after all.’  
‘Well then, if you’re not leaving me and I’m not leaving you then it seems to me we’re still very much together,’ John says, reaching one hand up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I may get irritated with you occasionally but please, never doubt that I love you. I love you so much, Sherlock Holmes. I’m not going anywhere.’   
Leaning forwards he brings their lips together in a gentle kiss. His hand sneaks up from Sherlock’s cheek to toy with the soft curls just above the detective’s ear. Sherlock moans lightly and wraps one arm around John’s waist, pulling him in closer to his body. They kiss languidly for a few minutes, John shuffling ever closer to the detective on his knees until Sherlock slides down from his chair to join John on the floor, never disengaging their mouths.   
Finally John pulls back, slightly breathless. ‘Don’t ever say that to me again Sherlock. Ever.’  
Sherlock smiles slightly and tangles his fingers in John’s hair. ‘Fine.’ He pauses and looks a little pained. ‘I’m... you may have noticed, John but... I’m not very good at this. You’ll have to make allowances.’  
John grins. ‘Wow. I never thought I’d hear the words “I’m not very good at this” come out of Sherlock Holmes’s mouth.’  
Sherlock shifts on the floor next to John. ‘Yes, well, don’t get too comfortable, it’s not going to happen again.’  
‘I wouldn’t expect it to.’ They stare at each other for a few moments and then, by mutual, unspoken agreement, end up wound together again. This kiss is fiercer, more desperate. Each recognise what they almost lost and cling that little bit tighter. John’s hands slip under the hem of Sherlock’s shirt to trace feather-light touches over the detective’s taut back muscles before sliding around to pinch at the hardened buds of Sherlock’s nipples.   
Sherlock tips his head back automatically, a moan reverberating deep in his chest. John grins and attaches his mouth to Sherlock’s slender neck, biting and sucking his way down it as his fingers continue to tease.  
‘Oh God, John...’ Sherlock groans aloud. ‘I’m not sure anybody should be this good at doing this the day after they’ve got shot.’  
‘I’m full of surprises,’ John murmurs, detaching his lips from Sherlock’s throat for a brief moment.   
Before too long they find themselves stretched out on the sofa, deciding the bedroom is too far away, John lying half on top of the slender detective. Their shirts and jeans have been shucked off and lie unceremoniously dumped on the floor.   
‘Perhaps we should... ahhh... shut the... curtains,’ John gasps, finding it difficult to form words as Sherlock jerks his hips up, his barely covered erection meeting John’s, sparking delicious heat all through John’s body.  
‘No time,’ Sherlock pants, rutting desperately against John. John plunges his hands into Sherlock’s curls, tugging at them hard enough he is sure it must be bordering on painful for the detective. It doesn’t seem to bother him though, in fact his eyes roll back with pleasure and his back arches.  
John can feel a dull ache in his shoulder. He is probably straining his injury more than is wise, but right now, with Sherlock reaching down to remove his boxers and grip his throbbing cock he really couldn’t care less.   
Swiftly he returns the favour and then Sherlock has both of them in hand and is tugging rhythmically, smearing pre-come as lubricant with his thumb. John pants harshly and thrusts upwards into Sherlock’s fist. The friction is all too much, it feels like months since they’ve been this connected.   
‘Sh-Sherlock,’ he gasps out, his features taut with pleasure. ‘I’m going to, going to come.’  
‘Me too,’ Sherlock responds, his curls damp with sweat, sticking to his flushed face. John doesn’t think he’s ever looked more stunning.  
Sherlock arches once again, his eyelashes fluttering and one tooth sticking out to bite at his full lower lip and that undoes John.   
‘Jesus, Sherlock!’ he screams as he spurts all over their joined hands. Sherlock twists and writhes beneath him before moaning John’s name loudly as his orgasm overtakes him as well.  
Once they’ve calmed down a little John pushes himself upright and sits in the corner seat of the sofa. Slowly he reaches out and traces a hand over the livid, angry-looking bruise which is just starting to fully develop on Sherlock’s chest, right at the spot where John’s bullet thudded into the vest.  
Sherlock winds his fingers around John’s wrist and stills his hand, his flickering glaucous gaze lasers into John’s face.  
‘Don’t. It’s not your fault.’  
‘It is my fault, Sherlock. I shot you.’  
Sherlock nods once. ‘Yes. I’m not disputing that, John. But it was that or the certainty of death for either me, you or Mrs Hudson. I consider a few scratches and bruises a reasonable price to pay for all of us being alive.’  
John sighs deeply, still deeply disturbed at seeing the evidence of his actions marring the beauty of Sherlock’s pale chest. ‘How can I argue with your logic?’  
‘It would be unwise to try,’ Sherlock states. John grins at him.   
‘Well, we’d better get cleaned up.’ He gestures to the semen now drying all over his hands and Sherlock’s chest.  
Sherlock twists his head on the cushions and flicks a wrist limply towards the kitchen. ‘Use some of the kitchen towel. I think Mrs Hudson bought us a couple of new rolls.’  
John blinks at him. ‘Oh, so it’s going to be me getting up and wandering starkers into the kitchen is it?’  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘Of course, John. I’m injured.’  
‘You’re not the only one Sherlock! You got a bump on the head and a bruise on your chest!’  
Sherlock stares at him, his gaze twinkling. ‘You shot me,’ he points out, pouting.  
John sighs but can’t stop a small smirk twisting his lips as he heaves himself to his feet and moves over to the kitchen, attempting to keep out of sight of the windows.  
‘Are you ever going to let that go?’  
‘Probably not,’ Sherlock responds. ‘As a bargaining chip it’s pretty up there.’  
John grumbles to himself a little but he is smiling as he does so. Grabbing the kitchen towel he dampens it under the sink and returns to clean himself and Sherlock off. Once that is done he pulls on his underwear and flings Sherlock’s in the detective’s general direction. Turning towards him he chokes out a laugh as he sees the detective disdainfully removing his silk blue boxers from where they have landed on his face.   
‘You did that on purpose,’ he mutters mulishly.  
‘No, but I wish I had,’ John chuckles before yanking on his jeans and hunting for his shirt. ‘You should get dressed. Lestrade wants us to report to the Yard if we’re feeling up to it today.’  
‘What if I want to stay here?’ Sherlock says, stretching out his legs on the sofa and affecting a nonchalant pose. John scoffs at him, pulling his shirt over his head.  
‘Yeah, right. You’ll be bored within thirty seconds of me walking out the door.’  
Sherlock sighs and sits upright, sliding his boxers up his slender thighs and plucking his jeans off the floor. ‘Do you think he’ll have a new case by now?’  
John spins around to glare at his boyfriend. ‘No, Sherlock. Absolutely not. You need a couple of days rest at least.’  
‘You said a week earlier,’ Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Which is it?’  
John sighs loudly. ‘A couple of days. No need to get overly ambitious. Besides, it’s New Year’s Eve tonight. I was hoping we could have a nice night in together. It seems like it’s been far too long since we’ve done that.’  
Sherlock groans and fixes the buttons on his jeans before shrugging into his shirt. ‘Fine. But absolutely no Jools Holland.’


	31. The Conclusion

Chapter Thirty-One

The Conclusion

‘He’s not said a word so far,’ Lestrade says, tapping a pen against a pad of paper on his desk. ‘Not for lack of us trying to get him to open up. But he’s completely lost it. Just keeps laughing and then going into tempestuous rages about how you tricked him, John. He’s full of death threats against you and Sherlock.’  
‘If you ask me, the man’s always been at least one sandwich short of a picnic,’ John mutters, reaching out to clasp Sherlock’s hand in his.  
‘So what are you going to do?’ Sherlock demands, his gaze intense. Lestrade shrugs.  
‘Well, we’ve easily got enough evidence to put him away for murder and attempted murder, no worries about that,’ Lestrade says. ‘I’m deeply indebted to you both, really.’ He turns his attention to John. ‘Sherlock tells me that you’ve put him under a case ban for a few days.’  
John nods and grins at the scowl now adorning Sherlock’s features. ‘Doctor’s orders. He needs to take it easy for awhile. So do I, come to that.’ He rubs distractedly at his shoulder, the bulk of the gauze padding easily visible from under his jumper.  
‘Fancy coming to the pub later?’ Lestrade asks. ‘Me and a few of the lads are going out tonight to celebrate the New Year.’  
‘Is Anderson one of the lads?’ Sherlock asks caustically. Lestrade shrugs.  
‘Possibly. But you should still come along. It’d be good to have you there.’  
‘Yeah, that sounds good,’ John says, ignoring Sherlock’s glare completely. ‘Otherwise I’ll just have to put up with him putting new bullets in the wall and shouting about how bored he is.’  
Sherlock snorts and gets up, drawing his coat collar up around his ears as he stalks out. John glances over the desk and raises an eyebrow at Lestrade.  
‘We’ll be there.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

‘Can we leave yet?’ Sherlock shouts over the din of the crowded pub. John smiles and takes his hand, tugging him forwards.  
‘We’ve only just got through the door, Sherlock! Look, let’s just go and find Lestrade shall we?’   
Sherlock gives a long-suffering sigh. ‘If we must.’  
John turns to him, places a hand behind his neck and pulls him down for a lingering kiss. Sherlock’s lips are soft and plush as always against his. He nips lightly at the detective’s lower lip, making Sherlock moan low in his throat.  
‘I’ll make it your while,’ John murmurs in his ear. Sherlock gives a slight shiver.  
‘Well, perhaps I can bear it for a few minutes,’ he responds. John slides his hand down to Sherlock’s arse and gives it a small squeeze.  
‘There we go. He’s over there.’ Pulling Sherlock behind him by the hand John makes his way over to a corner of the pub which appears to have been commandeered by most of the Yarders. With some instinctual knowledge the rest of the clientele seem to realise this and the area is given a fair berth, meaning it’s a lot less crowded than the rest of the pub. Lestrade stands up to pull John into a hug and shake Sherlock’s hand as they approach.  
‘Good to see you both. What are you drinking? This one’s on me.’  
‘Just a lager please,’ John responds and glances at Sherlock. The detective casts a disdainful eye over the beverages displayed behind the bar and frowns.  
‘I’ll have a shandy,’ he says coolly.  
Lestrade heads off to get the drinks and John collapses onto a chair at the nearest table. Sherlock follows him over and folds himself gracefully as ever into a seat. He pushes a few strands of dark hair away from his eyes and stares around at the patrons, undoubtedly deducing their entire life stories.  
Lestrade returns and places a pint in front of John and a smaller glass in front of Sherlock who peers into it distrustfully.  
‘What’s wrong?’ Lestrade asks resignedly.   
‘I don’t like drinking,’ Sherlock responds, sniffing warily at the drink.  
‘It’s hardly got any alcohol in it!’ John protests, taking a deep draught of his lager.  
‘Alcohol is a poison, John, and like any poison is harmful even if taken in small doses.’  
‘This wasn’t the attitude you were taking when we were decorating the flat for Christmas and you got drunk on mulled wine.’  
Sherlock shudders thinking of it. John merely smiles and cocks his head in his boyfriend’s direction.  
‘And, if you recall, that evening ended quite nicely, didn’t it?’  
Without another word Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, smirks and takes a sip of his drink. Lestrade groans.  
‘I don’t even want to... right, well.’ He coughs and takes a draught of his pint.  
‘Oh, brilliant, what do you want now?’   
John glances around, surprised at Sherlock’s sudden tone, and sees that Donovan is standing by their table, shifting from foot to foot and twisting her hands uncomfortably. Sherlock stares at her, that cool gaze never leaving her face.   
‘I’ve... ahem, I’ve... come to thank you,’ she mumbles, her face flushed a deep crimson. Sherlock leans back in his chair and drums his fingers against the table.  
‘Oh really?’ he drawls. ‘For what?’  
Sally coughs to clear her throat and distractedly brushes a dark ringlet back behind her ear. Seeming to gather herself she meets Sherlock’s eyes.  
‘What you did for Mike.’ John blinks in surprise. Sherlock appears frozen in place. Sally glances around at them and carries on. ‘I know we’ve been a little... at odds... in the past. And I’m not saying I like you or anything. It’s just...’ she casts a look behind her shoulder at where Anderson is sitting, laughing raucously at something Inspector Dimmock has just said. When she turns back to them her gaze is slightly stonier. ‘Mike is too much of a tosser to realise or acknowledge what you did. So I’m saying his thank you for him. Thank you,’ she pauses for the tiniest moment. ‘Sherlock.’ Leaving them all frozen she nods once in the detective’s direction and then heads away from their table.  
After a few seconds John turns to Sherlock. ‘Was that the first time she called you by your actual name?’  
Sherlock is gazing into space and drags his eyes back to John’s. ‘Apart from the first time she met me, five years ago, yes it was.’  
John coughs and glances at Lestrade. ‘Well, we can probably call that progress, right?’  
Lestrade laughs and drains his pint. ‘Right. And it only took five years to achieve. Who knows what’ll happen in the next five? You’ll be having her round to dinner.’  
‘Let’s not get carried away, Lestrade,’ Sherlock murmurs but there is a glimmer of a smile hovering around his lips. Abruptly he stands up, a flurry of dark curls and haste. ‘Right. I’m buying the next round. What’s everyone having?’  
John gazes in astonishment at him. ‘Has somebody just swapped my mad boyfriend for a normal person, Lestrade? Or did he really just offer to buy a round?’  
Lestrade pushes his empty pint glass across the slightly sticky table to be collected by Sherlock. ‘I think we’re rubbing off on him.’  
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Sherlock snaps out, huffing slightly. ‘Once my doctor has announced I’m fully recovered it’s back to business. Which means, of course, me proving that you lot are all complete dunderheads with hardly a brain cell to rub together between you.’ He raises an eyebrow, swipes John’s glass up along with Lestrade’s and disappears off to the bar.  
‘You didn’t even ask what we wanted!’ Lestrade shouts after him.  
‘You and John are creatures of habit, Lestrade. The same again, it hardly takes a mind as brilliant as mine to work that one out,’ Sherlock throws over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. John glances at the Detective Inspector.  
‘Nope, same old Sherlock,’ they say together.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later and Sherlock and John leave the pub. Neither are particularly drunk, having paced themselves rather well, but unfortuately they cannot say the same about Lestrade. When they left him he was enthusiastically singing karaoke. Nobody had the heart to tell him that the pub didn’t have a karaoke machine and it was only intended to be background music.  
‘Fancy walking back?’ Sherlock asks as they leave. John takes his hand and squeezes it.  
‘Sounds good. But you love taxis.’  
‘Usually,’ Sherlock concedes as they begin to walk down the street. ‘But it’s a nice night and I feel like stretching my legs.’  
John breathes in the icy air and glances up at the cloudless sky.   
‘It was a good evening out,’ he remarks absently. Sherlock glances at him.  
‘It was bearable,’ he concedes.  
‘I didn’t see Donovan apologising for Anderson’s behaviour coming, I have to admit.’ Sherlock doesn’t reply for a few seconds.  
‘She has always been the slightly less objectionable one out of the two. It makes sense that if either of them were going to apologise it would be her.’  
John pauses and then ventures, ‘You don’t seem very happy about the fact she apologised.’  
Sherlock shrugs and his features are implacable as he carries on striding down the pavement. ‘Why should I care about her? Her apology means nothing to me. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are the only people I give a damn about.’  
John smiles. ‘And Molly.’ He intervenes as Sherlock seems about to demur this statement. ‘Don’t bother, Sherlock. I know you like her. Even though you won’t admit it.’  
Sherlock sighs. ‘Fine. And Molly. But that’s it.’  
‘Well, I’m honoured,’ John says and Sherlock cannot doubt the sincerity ringing out in his voice. His full lips quirk into a broad smile.  
‘Do you fancy taking the long way round?’ John asks as they come to an intersection. Five minutes walking if they turn left would take them straight to their front door. But he doesn’t really feel like returning home just yet. He is enjoying walking in the cold night air with Sherlock, feeling the other man’s warmth and solidity and sheer vitality next to him.  
Sherlock shrugs. ‘If you wish.’ They turn right and continue walking.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The aimless small-talk is nice, Sherlock thinks as he paces beside John in the moonlight and icy streets. That any sort of inane conversation would be pleasuarable to him in any way would have pre-John never occurred to him. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to categorise the sections of his life before he met the doctor in his mind as PJ.   
With John, any sort of conversation is appreciated, even the arguments. Never before has he hung on anybody’s word quite so much, never before has someone else’s opinion mattered to him in the slightest. Except perhaps Mrs Hudson, for her sake he has always tried to keep destruction of her property to a minimum.  
The encounter occurs when they begin to walk through one of London’s street tunnels. Hand in hand they have got perhaps halfway when four silhouettes enter the tunnel from the opposite end. John glances uneasily at Sherlock who carries on forging ahead.  
The four strangers are about a foot away from them when one of them speaks.  
‘Well, well. What have we got ‘ere?’  
John halts, Sherlock drawing up beside him. In the dim light he can see that their new friend is a rough looking teen, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. His dark hair is shaved into intricate patterns close to his skull, his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, indicating tiredness or the use of some less than legal substances. John imagines it is probably the latter. His dark hoody and tattered jeans are dirty and scuffed. His three friends present a similar picture. John sighs to himself, already guessing what is in store.  
‘A couple of flaming queers!’ the leader jeers at them, his features twisted into a mocking grimace but John can see the anger and danger sparking from his eyes. ‘Give us your wallets and phones.’  
‘Unlikely,’ Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes. The teenager glares at him.  
‘Alright, you posh fag. If you don’t give us your gear, we’ll stab you up.’ With that he withdraws from his hoody pocket a small flick-knife. With a press of his finger the blade flips open.  
‘You faggots make me sick,’ one of his mates sneers disgustedly. ‘Couple o’ arse-bandits, that’s all you are, innit? Not man enough for pussy.’  
His friends laugh and high-five him. Sherlock takes a step forwards.  
‘A predictable point of view coming from somebody raised in a poor council estate. A mother who drinks, father in prison and several younger siblings at home. No way out apart from a life of crime. Being part of a gang makes you feel important, a part of something and terrorising and mugging civilians is just a side-effect of that isn’t it?’  
The youth takes a step back, his eyes open wide. John will take a bet that that’s the first time anybody’s spoken to him like that before. Then his jaw tightens and he swings a fist towards Sherlock.  
‘You fucking cunt! I’ll kill you!’  
Sherlock calmly ducks the clumsy blow and aims one of his own. John knows about Sherlock’s amateur boxing status. His slender stature belies a deep core strength and flexibility. The hit almost knocks the teenager out of his Nikes.  
This doesn’t go down well with the rest of the gang. The leader jabs menacingly with his blade. ‘I’m gonna cut you up well good, you fag. And then I’m gonna start on your faggot boyfriend.’ He gestures with the knife in John’s direction and then starts towards Sherlock.  
It is at this point that John feels things have gone far enough. He steps forward, blocking the teen’s approach to Sherlock. With his left hand he subtly pushes Sherlock behind him so he is facing the gang on his own.  
‘Before you, as you so eloquently put it, “stab us up”, could I please have a few moments of your time?’  
His would-be assailant is clearly not used to this. It is deviating from his usual routine of threatening people and them begging and giving up all their valuables, clearly. He looks a little nonplussed and glances around at his mates who shrug.   
‘Alright,’ he says, finishing with a threatening glare in case they should forget who exactly is in charge of the situation.  
‘Unfortunately for you,’ John begins pleasantly enough, ‘you’ve picked on the worst two people possible.’ Sherlock, recognising John’s tone begins to smile. ‘Shall I tell you an interesting fact? Two psychopaths have tried to kill my boyfriend recently.’ He jerks his head towards Sherlock. ‘One of them I shot dead. The other is in prison by my hand. Out of those two the first was responsible for most of the major atrocities committed in Britain and Ireland for the last fifteen years. Any horrific murder you heard about recently on the news, that would be his work. He took my boyfriend away from me.’ John takes a step forwards, any hint of geniality completely gone from his tone now. His usually warm blue eyes are flinty. ‘I killed him for that. Shot him dead. The other, who I got arrested, was responsible for the murders of at least three men who have recently been on the news. Can you guess the common denominator? He tried to take my boyfriend away from me too. And I would have killed him if I’d had the chance. Now, let’s think about this. After all that I’ve told you, what chance do you think you possibly have with that snitchy little weapon?’ He indicates the knife derisively.  
The teen looks stunned. His mouth is gaping showing uneven and discoloured teeth. His gaze is slightly unfocused.   
‘Who the hell are you?’ he whispers once he’s found his voice.  
John barks a laugh. ‘Why on earth would I tell you? I’ll tell you this though, I’m a Captain in her Majesty’s army and I know at least fifteen different ways to disarm an armed assailant and at least fifty ways to kill a man.’ He takes a step back and spreads his arms. ‘How d’you fancy your chances?’  
For a couple of seconds it seems as if his words have worked and he and Sherlock will be able to leave without any further trouble. However one of his friends clearly doesn’t have the same instinct for self-preservation.   
‘Kev, you pussy! He’s bluffing, can’t ya tell? I’ll take care of ‘em.’ With that he pulls out his own knife and lunges around John and towards Sherlock.  
It is over very quickly. Sherlock dispatches the eager teen charging at him with a neat sidestep and a sharp blow to the side of the head. The leader, Kev, seems to abandon all his previous reason, perhaps as a result of being called a pussy and leaps towards John, the knife in his hand swinging wildly. John raises his hand and brings it down in a forceful swiping motion on Kev’s wrist. He cries out and drops the knife with a clatter, clutching his hand to his chest. Swiftly John curves his foot around and hooks it around Kev’s ankle. He falls like a stone.  
Which leaves the fourth member of the gang, the only one standing upright. He stands there, eyes darting wildly from John to Sherlock who close in on him, one on either side.  
‘Get out of here,’ John says sternly, fixing the boy with a glare. The kid does not need any further urging. With one last look at his fallen mates he takes to his heels and speeds away out of the tunnel as if the very devil were at his heels.  
Sherlock and John glance at each other and then burst out laughing. Linking hands again they jog out of the alley and emerge back out into the London night.  
‘Well, that was fun,’ Sherlock says, still holding back snorts of laughter. John nods in agreement.  
‘Wouldn’t be a proper walk home without at least one incident where people want to beat us up, would it?’  
‘Dull, I should say,’ Sherlock agrees, that rare and unforced smile plain on his face. ‘Still, we should be getting home. It’s fairly cold and if I remember rightly you promised to make that dreadful visit to the pub worth my while.’  
John gazes up at him. ‘So I did.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They are upon each other virtually the second they step into the living room of the flat. Sherlock’s hands are everywhere, running insistently over John’s back and sides, tracing every muscle.  
‘Perhaps we should head up to the bedroom,’ John murmurs as he pulls away from the detective briefly.  
‘A very good plan,’ Sherlock responds, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him to their room. Once inside the mood changes. They approach each other slowly. John reaches out and pulls Sherlock into his arms. The height difference means that he ends up laying his head against the hard planes of Sherlock’s chest.  
‘I thought I might have lost you again,’ he whispers, clutching tightly onto the fabric of the detective’s shirt.  
‘Please, John. Kev and his bunch of hilariously pathetic friends...’  
John pulls back and swats him lightly on the chest. ‘Not them, you idiot,’ he says fondly. ‘McGinty. The warehouse. It was like the swimming pool all over again.’  
‘I have to admit, I did rather see an outcome like that coming,’ Sherlock murmurs softly. ‘Why else would I have voluntarily contacted my brother? I needed someone who could provide me with a bulletproof vest and Lestrade would have asked too many questions.’  
‘Fine, but enough with the secrecy. From now on we’re in everything together. I want you to tell me if you’re planning something like that.’ John glances up at Sherlock, a hint of a smile hovering on his lips. ‘Just so I’m prepared for the possibility that I may have to shoot you. Got it?’  
Sherlock smiles and pulls John in close again. ‘Got it, John.’  
He kisses him hungrily, parting John’s lips with his tongue and probing deeply. John groans and backs him up against the bed so they both fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.   
‘How do you want to do this?’ Sherlock asks as he busies himself with removing John’s jumper and t-shirt. Once the doctor’s chest is laid bare he leans over and places tender little butterfly kisses everywhere. John squirms on the sheets and threads a hand through dark curls.  
‘I want to fuck you,’ he whispers. Sherlock freezes and glances up at him through long lashes. John moans low in his throat. The detective looks positively delectable looking at him like that.  
‘Oh God, John. Do you have any idea how arousing that is?’ Sherlock groans, already fiddling with the zipper on John’s jeans. His doctor grins up at him but says nothing. Instead he slips his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and draws the material up and away, baring the detective’s chest to his hungry gaze.   
Once more the ugly bruises on Sherlock’s chest are exposed to John’s gaze. He eyes them with the same torment he suspects he will always feel until they fade. Even then, perhaps the sight will never leave him fully.  
‘You did what you had to do,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘Besides, yours is worse.’ Reaching out one delicate hand he runs his fingers over the gauze which hides the worst of the doctor’s new injury. Directly over the old one. Directly over the shot which brought John to him.  
‘It doesn’t hurt much,’ John lies smoothly. True enough the wound is a lot less painful now, but too much strain and he feels the ache start up deep in his muscles. Sherlock doesn’t look convinced, instead he straddles John and presses a kiss as close as he can to the bandaging. Holding John’s gaze he runs his hand down and caresses the prominent bulge in John’s jeans. John’s eyes flicker shut in pleasure, Sherlock smiles and slips his fingers under the waistband of John’s boxers so he is holding the doctor’s hot, throbbing flesh in his hand. John arches under his touch.  
Moving his hand slowly, Sherlock begins to pump, leaning low over John who twists on the sheets.  
‘Jesus,’ the doctor says shakily, thrusting his hips up into Sherlock’s fist. Sherlock captures his mouth in a slow and sensuous twining of tongues. When they break apart John scoots himself up against the headboard, leaving Sherlock kneeling on the bedclothes in front of him.  
‘I think it’s time we got these off,’ John murmurs, gesturing to their jeans. Sherlock smiles slowly at him, a sinful, lustful smile and, holding John’s eyes, he shimmies his trousers over his slim hips, his boxers swiftly following suit along with his socks. John follows his example, his tattered jeans falling over the side of the bed. Sherlock prowls up the bed on his hands and knees, his eyes glittering as he lays himself beside John.  
Situated like this the difference between them is clear. John, winding himself around Sherlock, is smaller, more compact, bristling with muscle left over from his army days. His skin is still tanned a light golden colour despite the fact that it’s the middle of winter in England. His cropped dark blonde hair is greying around his temples and his face is lined, a memento to his time in the army.  
Sherlock by contrast is six foot of slender, lithe, pale skin, comprising mostly of leg, arm and neck. He has some slight musculature on his chest, the merest hint of a six-pack. His dark curls are splayed over the pillow and his long slim neck is bared to John’s admiring gaze. Luminous eyes which are ever changing colour from palest grey to azure blue to oceanic green glitter in the midst of high cheekbones. The cupid bow lips are currently moulded into a smile that is somewhere in between content and lustful.  
And yet they have their similarities, the most obvious being the scars littering both their bodies. John’s are perhaps more noticable, particularly the one on his shoulder, currently hidden from view by the gauze. There are a few others, a bullet graze on the inside of his thigh and a few slashes on his arms made by knives. Looking at them like this, Sherlock would appear to not have nearly as many. He has a stitched up wound on his shoulder from a criminal chase gone badly wrong about a year ago and track-marks on his pale forearms, a testament to his drug-taking days. If he was to turn onto his back, however, his scars would easily rival John’s. Moriarty has left his mark permanently in the mess of mauled tissue, stretching from the nape of his neck all the way down to his hips. It is ugly, yes. John’s scars are ugly. But together they tell a story. A story of how boy and boy meet. One is injured in the war and sent home to meet somebody new. One, through a traumatic event, has his humanity restored and with it the ability to open his heart.  
John eases Sherlock down into the mattress with a lingering kiss as his left hand fumbles around for the bottle of lube which is now kept on the bedside table. Soon enough he finds it and kneels so that his knees trap Sherlock’s legs between them. The detective gazes up at him, managing to look both innocent and lascivious at the same time.  
Slathering a significant amount of lube onto his fingers John places the bottle back on the table and slides one finger deep inside his boyfriend. Sherlock hisses at the intrusion and his plump lips part in a gasp. His slender fingers clench and relax on the bedsheets. John smiles and slides a second finger in to join the first. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to the sensation of Sherlock’s tight, hot walls surrounding his flesh, nor the gasped moan elicited from the detective when he probes his prostate. Scissoring his fingers his other hand moves up to fondle one of Sherlock’s now very sensitive nipples.   
‘J-John,’ Sherlock gasps out, his knuckles turning white. ‘Please.’  
‘Not yet,’ John murmurs, sliding a third finger in to the knuckle, Sherlock’s hole now widening easily to accomodate him. His gaze is fixated on Sherlock’s flushed face, at the long lashes fluttering.  
‘John, I’m going to be really.... ahhh... angry if you don’t do it....’ Sherlock stutters, attempting to form a coherent sentence even in the midst of his pleasure.  
‘Patience,’ John whispers throatily, even though his own erection is aching from the desire to bury himself in Sherlock. ‘Good things come to those who wait.’  
‘Patently untrue,’ Sherlock manages as John flicks and rubs at his nipples. ‘I don’t imagine for one second that all the lucky people in the world waited for their luck to come... ahhh...’  
In the midst of his babbling John judges the time is right to slick his cock up with the residual lube from his fingers and slide in.   
‘Well, I think I’ve found a new way to shut you up,’ John pants as he holds still, waiting for Sherlock to acclimatise to his presence. The detective merely moans and clutches at John’s hips, pulling him in even deeper. John gasps at the feeling and decides it is clearly okay for him to move. Slowly he withdraws until just the head of his prick is in Sherlock and then drives back inside, hitting Sherlock’s prostate with unerring accuracy.  
Sherlock shudders and tosses his head. ‘Harder, John. Harder.’  
Smiling, John obliges.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

‘You are happy with me John, aren’t you?’ Sherlock asks quietly as they lie wound around each other later. John turns his head on the pillow so that the moonlight beaming through the gap in the curtain hits him as he faces Sherlock.  
‘I’ve never been happier in my life,’ he says, quite truthfully. ‘Why would you even ask something like that?’  
Sherlock is silent for a while before replying and when he does there is a strain to his voice. ‘I’m afraid you may find me quite needy upon this point, John. I have spent so long shunning any sort of friendship or company that I find it difficult to believe anybody would willingly want to spend time with me.’  
‘Well, we all have our little hang-ups,’ John says quietly, reaching one finger out to stroke a sharp cheekbone. ‘I can promise you to give you every reassurance anytime you need it as to my committment to you.’  
They are quiet until John props himself up on the pillows. Sherlock shifts to look up at him, wondering at the sudden movement.  
‘Why on earth did you pick me?’ John says quietly, almost to himself. Sherlock frowns, taking in the anxiety evident on John’s features. It seems he has started off an avalanche of self-doubt.   
Thinking deeply he wonders how to proceed. He has always been a master of words on every subject apart from that of the heart. He has only just come to terms with the presence of his own feelings, how on earth is he supposed to wax lyrical about his feelings for John?  
‘Because... you’re you,’ he responds eventually. Seeing the disappointment on John’s face he hastens to explain. ‘I can’t quite put it into words, John. You know more than anyone perhaps that I never imagined myself forming a connection like this with anybody. I was quite happy by myself, solving crimes for the Yard. Then one day I happen to mention to Mike Stamford that I must be tricky to live with as a passing comment. The next thing I know he arrives back from lunch with a man in tow. More than a man. A soldier home from military service. And I was undone, John. From that very moment, although I didn’t know it. in my life the work was everything and then you arrived and eclipsed it all. Please don’t ask me to explain how or why.’  
‘No,’ John murmurs, his honest, open face alight with pleasure. ‘That’s fine Sherlock. It’s all fine.’


	32. Epilogue

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

‘You’re sure you’ll be okay?’  
‘Yes, for the last time, I’ll be perfectly fine.’  
John smiles fondly at Sherlock who shrugs into his coat and reaches out for his scarf from the peg in the hallway. Outside his taxi blares its horn impatiently.   
‘I should only be a few days at the most. I expect this case to be wrapped up fairly quickly.’   
‘Sounds interesting though,’ John says, his eyes twinkling.   
Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck. ‘Indeed. It promises to be a most diverting excursion. And I’ve always loved Paris in the winter.’  
‘Hurry up, mate! I ain’t got all day y’know!’  
‘Your taxi’s getting impatient,’ John remarks wryly, staring out the open door at the dark car pulled up by the pavement. A large man with a shock of dark hair and a bullish expression is currently leaning out of the window, gesturing at Sherlock with a look of deepest impatience.  
‘He’ll just have to wait,’ Sherlock announces diffidently. ‘I need to do my final check.’ John leans back against the wall of the hallway smirking as Sherlock roots through the duffle bag at his feet, muttering under his breath. Sherlock’s essentials list would give anybody a very good insight into his personality.  
‘Premier lens, laptop, phone, chargers, litmus strips, sterile containers, bunsen burner, casenotes, secondary lens and...’ he quirks an eyebrow at John, ‘Rubik’s Cube. I’ll have it finished by the time I come back.’  
John grins and holds out a plastic bag. ‘You might be needing these. Passport, Euros, tickets, spare underwear and a couple of cereal bars for the train.’  
Sherlock blinks at him and then stuffs the proffered bag into the duffle.  
‘Ah. Yes, good. Thank you.’  
John cocks his head. ‘How on earth are you going to get all that stuff past customs?’  
‘Don’t be obtuse, John. You know the answer to that.’  
‘Ah, yes. Mycroft. Of course.’  
‘He does have his uses occasionally,’ Sherlock admits in a tone of deepest reluctance. Outside the taxi horn sounds again even more impatiently.   
‘You’d better be going. Your train leaves soon.’  
‘You’re sure you won’t come with me?’ Sherlock’s previously businesslike tone turns softer, his eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. It’s a change in his personality John has become accustomed to, this more vulnerable side of him.  
‘I can’t,’ John says, stepping away from the wall and moving in front of Sherlock, the duffle bag between them at Sherlock’s feet. ‘I can’t take anymore days off work. There’s only so far Sarah’s patience with me will stretch.’  
‘I’ll miss you,’ Sherlock announces matter-of-factly, placing a hand lightly on John’s waist.   
‘I’ll miss you too,’ John responds, pulling the detective into a brief yet loving kiss. ‘I’ll see you when you get back. Call me anytime you like to use me as a sounding-board if you need to.’  
Sherlock smirks at him, bends to kiss him once more, heaves his duffle bag onto his shoulder and strides towards the car. The cabby sighs exaggeratedly and starts the engine.  
‘And don’t do anything stupid!’ John shouts after him as the taxi pulls away from the curb. Laughing quietly to himself he shuts the front door and bounds up the stairs. Entering the living room he snatches up his phone.  
It rings twice before it’s picked up.   
‘On our way,’ the voice on the other end says. ‘We’ll be with you in precisely two minutes.’ John smiles.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The workers Mycroft has hired are very efficient. Of course, John would expect nothing less from the man who runs the British Government. In the end he probably needn’t have taken the days off work at all. The men scurry everywhere, carrying in equipment, linking up pipes and electrical sockets. John oversees operations and makes endless cups of tea.  
‘And you’re certain it’ll be done before he gets back?’ John asks Mycroft anxiously. The elder Holmes sips elegantly at his mug of tea and raises an eyebrow at John. The doctor nods.  
‘Fine. It’s just you know what he’s like for solving cases earlier than planned.’  
‘If such an occasion arises I will merely find a way to stall him,’ Mycroft says smoothly. ‘It is hardly a difficulty, John.’  
John gazes around the living room as a couple of men stagger past with a sink carried between them. ‘I just want to surprise him for once.’

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

‘Non! Etes-vous idiot? La solution est parfaitement évidente. Pourquoi vous n’écouterez pas?’  
‘Je ne serai pas parlé pour aimer cela!’  
Sherlock spins away from the French Inspector in charge of the investigation rubbing at his temples. The man appears to be being deliberately obtuse. Hurried footsteps approach and he turns to glare at the unfortunate newcomer. This happens to be a young, rather nervous man who he has seen darting around the crime-scene taking notes and generally fawning over the Inspector.  
‘Sir? Er... Mister Holmes? The Inspector has sent me to talk to you. He wishes to know why you are so sure of these... er... conclusions.’  
The man’s English is accented but understandable. Sherlock, who can speak French fluently, nevertheless replies in English as well.  
‘You do not need to understand since it is more than obvious that is beyond all of you. All you need to do is take my word as gospel. Things will move a lot quicker if you do.’  
The man looks stricken and flounders for words, his pale face flushing. In his mind Sherlock hears John’s voice.  
Easy, Sherlock. Take it easy on them for God’s sake.  
He forces a gentle smile. ‘Just... fetch the Inspector again. Tell him, tell him that I will try to explain my conclusions.’

Ten Minutes Later

‘My deepest thanks Monsieur Holmes,’ the Inspector murmurs, a look of awe on his previously irritated features. ‘I have to confess, when Monsieur Lestrade recommended you I never dreamed you would solve this matter in such little time.’  
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to a certain amount of cynicism with regards to my abilities,’ Sherlock replies wryly, already on his phone texting John.  
Case solved. Catching Eurostar this afternoon. I miss you. SH  
‘London is very lucky to have you,’ the Inspector continues. ‘I wonder, is it possible to hire your services?’  
Sherlock fixes him with a glare. ‘If the case is interesting then I will be here. Other than that I cannot say whether we will meet again Inspector.’  
‘Nicholas,’ the Inspector says, holding out his hand, a half-smile playing on his lips. ‘Thank you again for coming. And I do apologise for the... rocky start.’  
‘Quite alright,’ Sherlock says, already distracted as his phone chimes with a message.  
Pick up milk on your way home? ETA? Miss you too, hurry back. JW  
Sherlock’s slender fingers fly over the keypad of the phone as he types out his response.  
Leaving crimescene now. ETA in London approximately 14:00. Will pick up milk. SH  
‘Someone is anxious for your return, no doubt,’ Nicholas says, noticing the intent look on Sherlock’s face.   
‘My boyfriend,’ Sherlock replies absently. He completely misses the incredulous look quickly masked on the Inspector’s features.  
‘Ah. I did not know you had a boyfriend.’  
Sherlock finishes the text and swings his bag onto his shoulder. ‘Why should you? I doubt I’ll see you again, Inspector, but if you do happen to have a case which appears unsolveable please send me an email. You have my card.’  
He leaves the crimescene quickly, already working out the fastest route to the Gare du Nord. Once on the train he will be in London within the hour and from there, Baker Street and John. 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock, a pint of semi-skimmed dangling from one hand, is in too much of a hurry to unlock the door and see John to notice details which would normally never elude him. Therefore he doesn’t see the faint (but obvious to the trained eye) marks on the pavement outside Baker Street which would indicate to any self-respecting Consulting Detective that a number of workmen, evident by the boot-marks of course, have been busy both in and out of number 221B.   
Instead he bounds up the stairs and it is not until he is right at the door of the living room that he notices something is amiss. He pauses on the threshold and sniffs curiously. Paint. Dust. The faint acidic tang of chemicals. The odour of building and industry. Has John remodelled the kitchen?  
‘John?’ he calls out, stepping forwards into the room hesitantly. ‘I’ve got the milk.’ He is home, of course. Sherlock saw his scuffed shoes in the hallway and his coat hanging on the peg. And then he’s there, rounding the corner from the kitchen, his short greying hair dishevelled, a long-sleeved top instead of his usual jumper, dark jeans and socks with a hole in the right toe. Sherlock feels the smile spread across his face.  
‘What have you done to the kitchen?’ Sherlock demands instantly. John’s only response is an enigmatical grin.  
‘The kitchen?’ he asks puzzled, cocking his head to one side. ‘Nothing. I’ve just made tea, nothing unusual about that surely?’  
Sherlock frowns. John is teasing him, he is certain. And there is something different about the flat. He just can’t put his finger on it. Still eyeing John he sweeps past him and round the corner. His eyes take in every little detail.   
‘John... what have you done?’ Sherlock asks horror-struck, absently placing the milk down on a nearby counter. ‘Where are they? What have you done with them?’  
John follows him, picks up a steaming mug of tea from the counter and takes a sip. ‘Oh, you mean all the rubbish you left in here? I tidied it away. I thought it was time we made the kitchen an actual place where we can cook food.’ He shrugs. ‘Couldn’t do that with a miscroscope and God-knows-what everywhere. It’s unsanitary. Thanks for getting the milk.’ He picks it up and puts it in the fridge. ‘We were running quite low. I used the last of it for this tea.’  
Sherlock, possibly for the first time in his life, is speechless. John’s words are casual and bland, almost as if he has no idea of the magnitude of his actions. Sherlock spins to face him, his eyes frantic.  
‘John,’ he forces his tone to match the doctor’s casual one, ‘there were experiments in here in very delicate stages. Are you telling me, are you actually saying, that you’ve just thrown them away?’ By the end of the last sentence his voice has raised in pitch, a sure sign of stress, and his hands have unwittingly flown into his hair.  
‘No,’ John responds calmly. ‘Of course I haven’t thrown them away, you idiot. I don’t have a deathwish you know.’  
‘Then where are they?’ Sherlock all but screams. Out of all the possible reunion scenarios he had been imagining on the train back from Paris (courtesy of all the romantic films John makes him watch, no doubt) this definitely hadn’t been one of them. Returning to find all his precious experiments disposed of without a second thought. In his anxiety and anger the faint smells of paint, dust and chemicals has almost completely left his mind.  
‘Upstairs,’ John says, taking another sip of his tea and wandering back out into the living room. Sherlock trails at his heels like a bewildered puppy.   
‘Upstairs? Why would you move all my things upstairs?’   
John, cradling his tea, has to work hard not to burst out laughing at the bewildered and angry expression on the detective’s face. This is what he had hoped for, to be able to actually puzzle his genius boyfriend for once. But perhaps he is drawing it out a little too much. Although it is undeniably amusing, John can tell that Sherlock is getting genuinely worked up. He flicks his head in the direction of the stairs.  
‘Go and have a look.’  
Sherlock casts an uncertain look at John and goes upstairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The smell of paint and wood is stronger up here although that fact barely permeates Sherlock’s whirling consciousness. All he can think of are his experiments and why in the world John would have moved them up here. He winces when he thinks of the state they could be in by now. Doesn’t John understand that they need a controlled environment? With this amount of upheaval the results will probably be skewed and he’ll have to start all over again.  
He proceeds slowly down the hallway until an errant thought suddenly strikes him. He slows and draws to a halt, his mind whirring. The key question here is Why. John knows how important his experiments are to him. Even in the midst of their worst arguments the positioning of the microscope, test-tubes and other paraphernalia in the kitchen has been left untouched. And he hasn’t done anything dreadfully wrong that he can think of. John cannot be punishing him for something terrible or surely he would have appeared a lot angrier downstairs. In fact, the doctor seems almost amused about something.  
Sherlock reaches out a hand to steady himself against the wall. Stupid. Of course. It is so obvious! In the midst of his revelation Sherlock still finds the time to be utterly disgusted with himself. How had it taken him so long to think of this?  
Moving quickly now he heads to the room which had once been his. The door is shut. He reaches out a hand and slowly turns the doorknob, allowing the wood to swing inwards of its own accord.   
Without saying a word Sherlock stares into the room which now holds absolutely no resemblance to the way it was when he left for Paris. In the middle is a large steel table with a comfortable looking stool set in front of his microscope. A desk-lamp stands beside it with what looks like a moveable base so he would be able to position and focus the light anywhere he chooses. Against the wall opposite him is a large bookcase filled to bursting with all the volumes he owns on science, crime and deduction along with several new ones which he doesn’t recognise. Against the wall to his right is another steel table. This is full of his test-tubes, vases, bunsen burners and petri-dishes, all exactly how he’d left them. Standing next to it is a large refridgerator and he knows that if he opened it he would see all the perishable body-parts and other matter which needs to be kept cold. He shifts his gaze. The other side of the room boasts a large desk with another lamp and a whole stack of paper-pads with pens in a holder beside them. There is a sink and next to that a large stainless steel bin. Under the window is a deeply-cushioned armchair positioned in such a way that the lamp from the desk would be able to shine on whatever he chose to read there. The carpet has been taken up and now there is only sanded, plain wooden floorboards adding to the sense of space.   
There is nothing on the walls apart from his poster of the Periodic Table, a large corkboard and a whiteboard along with pens.   
Sherlock is completely unaware of the tears sliding down his cheeks. Instead all he can do is stand propped up against the wood of the doorframe and stare. He hardly hears John approach and jumps when he hears John’s voice.  
‘Do you like it?’  
Sherlock runs a quick diagnostic to determine whether or not he can speak yet. The result is negative so he nods his head to indicate his answer to John. He feels the doctor wrap an arm around his waist and come to stand beside him so they are both looking into the room.  
‘This is the second part of your Christmas present,’ John says softly, not looking at the detective. ‘Sorry it’s late but I had to wait until you were out of the flat for a decent amount of time. The trip to Paris was perfect.’  
‘You didn’t have to work,’ Sherlock states, aware of the slight tremor in his tone.  
‘No,’ John responds baldly.   
‘How did you get the sink in here?’  
John shrugs and laughs. ‘No idea. Mycroft sorted it all out with Mrs Hudson and the workmen. I just made tea and supervised it all.’ He pauses and when it becomes clear Sherlock isn’t going to speak again he glances at him out of the corner of his eye. All he can see is the detective’s profile and the tear tracks down his cheeks. ‘So... you like it?’  
For an answer Sherlock turns faster than John can blink and wraps his arms around the doctor, burying his face in his shoulder. John twists to accomodate him and brings his own arms up and around the detective’s back. One hand strays into Sherlock’s curls and he presses a kiss onto the top of the detective’s head.  
And John knows that Sherlock will never articulate exactly how pleased he is with his new laboratory. He doesn’t need to. His silent actions speak louder than his words ever could and John wouldn’t want it any other way.


End file.
